August, 2005
Vacation: 1: a respite or a time of respite from something; 2a: a scheduled period during which activity is suspended; 2b: a period of exemption from work granted to an employee for rest and relaxation; 3: a period spent away from home. . .in. . . recreation
Trip: 1: to make a journey; 2: to catch the foot against something so as to stumble; 3: to make a mistake or false step; 4: to get high on a psychedelic drug
It has been fun this summer to experience the different “groupings” of our kids. Abby, gainfully employed by the farm this summer, was gone each day to work, leaving her four siblings behind. Then there was a week when A&A were gone to camp, leaving the three younger ones. Anna spent another few days at the beach with Grandpa and Grandma. Emma and Elly also were treated to a few days at the beach and Ian had over 2 weeks in
Frankly, I’m glad that the kids get along as well as they do. There is perpetual play going on somewhere in the house. It makes for easy mothering. When two don’t get along, all I have to do is re-allocate them.
Most amazing were the two days when I had Abby and Anna with no one else. Even Mike was gone. I hadn’t had those two home alone since Emma’s birth seven years ago. What a riot. In fact, they had been the ages that E&E are now when Emma was born. The most notable difference has been with Anna’s absence/presence. When she is around, toys are picked up, dishes are done, chores are accomplished. She’s quite a task-master, both of her own tasks and the cajoling of her siblings into doing theirs. She traded rooms with Emma for a month (so Emma could experience a room by herself). Suddenly, the room Elly occupied was spotless, toys organized and the bed made. Elly was dressed in matching outfits, hair coiffed daily and chores completed in record time. It almost made me want to raise Anna’s allowance. Meanwhile, what had been Anna’s room suddenly looked like a bomb exploded, clothes strewn around and blobs of toothpaste in the sink. “Oh, Mom!”, Emma would sigh, exasperated. “You know I don’t like to work!”
The oddest of all this summer has been our family vacation. At the last minute, Abby was asked to consider subbing for someone on the youth group mission trip to
When we first married, we requested a lot of camping equipment for wedding gifts. I had previously done a lot of travel in an Avion trailer and the idea of tenting with my honey was quite a romantic one. We went a couple of times. Then we had Abby and life changed. When she was one, we planned a long trip with our tent, daughter and dog. On the first night she came down with a sinus infection so we decided to stay in a hotel where it would be warmer. We never went back because she was perpetually sick. And then we had Anna.
With two kids, a motorhome seemed like a good idea. Our first purchase into the RVing world worked great. The idea was to use it when we were home from
With the addition of three more chitlins, we found ourselves opting for a rental house where you unpack once and there was room for running around. Though convenient, Mike continued to pine every time we passed fields and forests and streams, so this year we decided to go camping again. Since it had been a long time since I had slept on the ground and since our old tent was not made for seven, we opted to rent a motorhome. With that decision, off we went, up the CA coast to our niece’s wedding and then on to
It was strange without Abby. There was a noticeable absence. Though, admittedly, when it came to sharing one tiny bathroom amongst us all, the extra teenager was not missed. This venture caused me to wonder about this concept of vacation. I used to laugh at my (unnamed) sister whose idea of roughing it was when the Ritz left a milk chocolate instead of dark chocolate on her pillow. Now I find myself concurring. What I’ve found on this vacation is that the word is a misnomer. There is no vacation for a mom. My work comes with me. I still cook and do dishes, only now it is on a stove with a couple of burners and insufficient pots and pans. I still break up fights and try to entertain, but now it is in an 8 x 30 foot tin can. I still do laundry, only now it is in some facility where I’m folding my delicate pretty “things” on the same table where some other guy (you know the kind – with an 8-day beard, Rocky-style undershirt, armpit hair that you can braid…) had just been folding his own racing-stripe covered underwear; where, if you drop a shirt, you need to re-wash it for all of the fuzz balls now attached; where you have to swish your hand in front of your face between foldings to keep the flies off.
I realize that what truly matters is the memories that are being built. To this day, my own siblings and I remember the ghost town we never saw in
I guess my only remaining question is why can’t memories be made poolside at a five star hotel?
Like a rock,
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