It’s hard to believe that the summer has already almost slipped out of our grasp. Although it was just a few months ago, it seems like years since we went on our first mini family vacation down to the sands of Pismo Beach. We’ve had a lot of fun this year, with trips to the Conway house at the Russian River and back to Boston to see my folks. Now, as I prepare for my tan to fade and the kids’ golden streaks to darken and, scariest yet, for Danny to strut off without me through that big kindergarten classroom door, I can’t help but reminisce of what I’ve learned from our adventures. It keeps me from worrying about whether or not Danny really knows how to use a urinal. (Dan swears he does. But he won’t let me go in there to make sure.)
Dirty clothes are OK, unless they are socks: Our family house at the river is one of my favorite places on this earth. It is also one of the dirtiest, nestled amongst redwoods and blackberry bushes. When a cold weather snap hit us on our week up there, we did a lot of clothes recycling, which was surprisingly OK. Except for socks. Socks get really, really dirty really, really fast. Socks smell. Bad. Take my advice. No matter where you go, always pack too many socks.
Forget organic, roadside rules: There is nothing more delicious than fruit you pick in the woods. I’ve known this since I was little myself. Every year, on the first day of our summer vacation up in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, my best friend Senta and I would take wooden bowls and fill them with wild raspberries and blueberries, which we would then eat in a bowl of milk. Now, my kids and I can spend hours picking blackberries at the river, naming areas of the woods “Blackberry Valley” and “Blackberry Castle” and picking until our fingers bleed but you can’t even tell through the purple stains of the fruit. Even baby Jay was obsessed, chowing down on every week. And in honor of Daddy’s great blackberry pies and our abundant pickings, he even redubbed all fruit “blackberry”.
If a child does not sleep enough, eventually there will be hell to pay. Especially if that child’s name is Annie: Annie is a “drama queen” according to Danny. And he has a point. The girl can be as sweet as pie to you. She’s always wearing a princess dress and often a crown, so you kind of expect the best. But after a week of late nights and a visit to the San Francisco Zoo right after a red-eye flight home, Annie carried on in a way that Linda Blair could not have dreamed of. Her head may have spun around. I’m not sure because about ten minutes in I stopped looking. But you have to give it to her, that girl can scream. And scream. And really the only thing you can do is laugh.
Grandparents’ love is indescribable: One of the best things about going home to Boston is the unbelievable love that is poured onto my children by my entire family, especially my parents. From Danny watching the Sox play with my dad, to Annie climbing in my mother’s lap to Jay toddling around showing off his fake burp and giving kisses, those kids just shine with the great love they feel there 24 hours a day.
Friendly’s is Boston’s secret weapon: Why oh why are there no Friendly’s in California? If there were, would butter crunch ice cream taste so sweet? Would monster/princess sundaes be so desired? Would hot dogs, hold the pickles, be considered a gourmet meal? Yes, yes and yes. My kids and I could eat every day at Friendly’s for the rest of our lives. I mean, you even get to call sprinkles jimmies when you are there. And when you say give me a lot of jimmies at Friendly’s that really means a lot rather than the two lame shakes you get in California. I could move back to Boston for the jimmies alone. Oh Friendly’s, we miss you already.
You are never too young or old for Santa Claus. Or cannonballs. To see my 81 year old father at Santa’s Village, a Christmas-themed amusement park in the White Mountains, is to see pure joy. There is a show there with some animated figures of “Elfis” and “Rudy the Reindeer” that he just can’t get enough of, so neither can we. And to see my six-foot something nephew Michael do a cannonball into an unsuspecting pool of people is the same kind of happiness. Especially when it starts a revolution, with everyone young and old cannonballing from all sides, despite every sign that says you can’t. I even did some myself, after some false starts. I’d never done them before, but when your five year old is running next to you, somehow taking that leap is not so hard. Sometimes you have to become the parent to really understand how to best have fun.
Turn off the TV, turn on the talk: One of the most amazing things about our week at the river is that there was absolutely no TV. So we talked and we talked and we talked. We told stories about leprechauns and ghosts and big-butted caterpillars. And no one once asked for TV because no one missed it. I even read a book. Yes, an entire book. Now that we are home again, it’s easy to be too tired to talk. After a stressful work day, it sometimes feels simpler to turn on the TV while making dinner rather than trying to think up adventures while cutting a cucumber.
Once you’re back from vacation, there is no denying it. You are back. No magic wand is going to slow down the days, give me one more week of my Danny as a preschooler still safe in his happy little school, of my Jay just learning how to walk, dance and sing, of my Annie giving me beauty tips and learning her own version of the ABCs, where A is the most important letter. Time moves on, the pace picks up, the work calls interrupt the stories. Whole wheat bread replaces donuts. PJs are off before breakfast and back on before 8. Summer concerts are over, train rides are closed. We are back in the routine.
But when I close my eyes, I can see Danny and Annie cuddled up together in bed, giggling about what the day would bring while Dan and I are still sleeping right near them, Jay snuggled between us. I can see Danny laughing at my dad’s jokes at Friendly’s while Annie tries to coax my mother into letting her wear all of her jewelry and Jay steals my food, flashing me a toothy smile. I can hear the waves that lulled us to sleep at Pismo every night. I can feel the tingle of a sunburn on my back.
I can hold close another summer with my babies, another set of memories that will keep me warm all winter, and keep me working towards next year’s reward, summer’s freedom, cannonballing towards us quicker than we think.
