Talk, talk

“We have to talk.”

With these four words, my kids are terrified. You can see it on their faces.

“Are we in trouble?”

Now, it seemed evident that I wasn't happy. The children didn't have to be mind readers to guess that how that Thing We Are Not Going To Talk About Now was handled. But they were not in so-called “trouble.” 

Still, they were not comforted by the sound of reason and reassurance.

And it didn’t matter that I had said the words calmly and without emotion.

Perhaps that just made the waiting part worse.

Most humans, even small ones, understand that the formal announcement of a management conference (especially after a minor dust-up and a not-so-minor period of silence) means the boss has had time to think and perhaps decide a course of action. And that a course of action so quietly and carefully deliberated is unlikely to be overruled by any person higher up the ladder.

There must be wiggle room. We are well into this new millennium, and there is always wiggle room.

“Are you mad?”

Now, ordinarily, any assurances I make that I am not seething with rage will be gobbled up by my family with a serving of relief. But I can tell this time they are hoping I will answer in the affirmative.

If I am angry, they still have leverage. The accused could explain their side, and admit where it may have fallen short. The culprit can then apologize and be forgiven. After which we can all move on to dessert with a scoop of someone promising to be better.

The meal can continue to the games portion of the evening.

But I’m not angry.

I’m not hurt.

And I’m not offering forgiveness.

I most certainly do not want to play any games.

I will see their gloomy faces and raise them a white flag.

“I’m done playing. I quit.”

I know my power rests in choosing the right battles, but there are just too many skirmishes within our ranks.

This surrender doesn’t mean they’ve won. It doesn’t even mean I’ve lost.

All it says is that someone isn’t playing fairly.

Maybe she’s a sore winner?

Maybe he’s a terrible loser?

There's even the genuine possibility that the person not playing by the rules is yours truly.

It’s more than likely that each of us can make a case that every one of use has been taken for granted.

It could mean the kitchen looks like it’s been through an earthquake.

Or that socks are all over the floor.

How many times do I have to tell you to brush your teeth?

Or that praise has been withheld where it should have been free-flowing.

I shouldn't need to ask, but I might have acknowledged.

So many reasons ...

Honestly, I don’t want to talk about it either. If I were able to nip all these buds, there’d be no tree.

So maybe we don’t have to talk after all.

Planting the seeds

I’m smiling.

Well, I could be smiling.

That’s what it looks like from the outside, anyway.

Check my Instagram. You'll get Insta-Envy. 

My lips are drawn up at the edges. The skin over my cheeks is tight. The chords of my neck are visible if not awkwardly pronounced. This chicken neck is a new and troubling development. As soon as the autumn winds clear out my summer closet, I will have to dig out a scarf.

I get sidetracked easily.

You can tell by the open dishwasher in the kitchen and the piles of laundry in the living room. I had started loading one machine, but then a buzzer summoned me to unload the other.

But I can’t be certain which alert sound came from where.

It shouldn’t matter. I can’t remember the last time I did laundry. Yesterday I climbed a mountain. Today I’m on a beach. 

My children have leashes tying surfboards to their ankles. For the few hours we are here, we will pretend we can conquer an ocean.

We should be happy.

They shouldn’t be bickering.

I should have rest-fortified patience.

But I don't. Any patience I had has been replaced by irritation, sleep deprivation, and a touch of Insta-envy. I miss the days when the children were young and the sleep I lost I'd assumed I'd find again one day. 

Maybe I'm just remembering it wrong.

My face hurts.

Am I smiling? I might be. I lose myself to scowling more often than I tend to imagine.

You can’t see my eyes behind the dark sunglasses. Ray-bans that came in on the tide one summer’s-leaving morning, which I’ve managed to hold onto however many summers have come and gone since they washed up on the beach.

My right hand raises to touch one of the arms that loops the shades over my ears. I make an imaginary adjustment. The sunglasses sit perfectly straight on my less than symmetrical face.

I wonder for a moment if this is theft by finding. Or merely salvaging joy.

My left hand clenches. Fingernails press into the palm making shallow, crescent-shaped trenches. Impressions that will go away once I relax.

If I can will it to happen.

That’s one of the problems.

I can’t relax. I can’t loosen my grip on expectations. I can't just breathe.

I have the feeling, without any evidence to the contrary, that I can't fix what has broken, and I can’t push any of the debris from my mind. There is danger in thinking any of it is beyond repair.

This is unnecessary stress.

I know this.

Small disappointments are only magnified by dwelling on them.

And small disappointments are everywhere a person can dwell these days.

Especially on vacation.

I am thankful it's almost time to pack up and return home. I'm ready for the mountains of laundry that will have smuggled buckets of sand. As I go through the pockets, I will find a few treasures from the sea: some beach glass, or a mollusk shell of some indeterminate genus.

For now, I will add them to a jar that contains 15 years worth of “joy.”

When I am ready to see it, I know these artifacts will be the seeds of memories that will take root for next year's holiday.

In the moment

It’s difficult to recreate a moment if not downright impossible.

And yet our family seems determined — with each summer-vacation square in our datebooks — to try.

Of course, we have a name for what usually turns out to be our ham-fisted, annual attempt: we call it “tradition.” And no matter how narrow or crumbly the ground underneath our tradition becomes, we are determined to stand on it.

This year’s must-recreate-experience involved a long weekend in Acadia with two branches of our extended family and two canine “cousins.” Together the bipeds and quadrupeds would walk the woods, trek through town, see the world from nearly a thousand feet above the ocean, and dine anywhere that had outdoor seating and a sign welcoming dogs.

We’d had so much fun the year before ... you know when the idea was new and uncertain. And when the children thought walking around the circumference of a mirror-still pond seemed putrid and a luncheon of popovers utterly preposterous.

Dragging their feet and harumpfing every step of the three-mile distance.

Realizing at the bitter end that the trip was actually quite sweet.

Of course, setting the bar low is the key to success.

Without even knowing it, the experience turned from dreary to dreamy with the advantage of hindsight.

Turns out our basic cabins had “secret rooms,” and the grounds had a heated pool. After-dusk swimming parties became a nightly requirement.

Even a before-dawn rousting of our sleepy bears from their dens turned into a moment of wonder, as sunrise on the summit kept even the most reluctant hiker among us from complaining the moment the clouds parted and coughed up a glowing red orb for their amusement.

This year’s trip would only get better. We’d do all the same things, but with foreknowledge and planning. We’d make sure to soak up at least a third more enjoyment.

For one thing, we’d have better weather. This was something we didn’t realize would be the case until the temperature — oppressive for August in Maine — plastered our shirts to our bodies with perspiration.

Suddenly, it dawned on us that last year we’d shivered in a cold so unexpected that we’d found it necessary to venture out and buy the kind of tourist shop sweatshirts we’d have ordinarily avoided.

This year, with the streets crowded and parking practically non-existent, hopes of walking through the shops evaporated.

And soon the shards of more dashed expectations began to pile up.

Our teenage trail guide — who fought with varsity debate club skill to be able to set the family course — misread the map and plotted our trek in reverse. Nothing makes embarrassment more evident than a half-a-dozen hikers telling you you’re headed the wrong way on a one-way trail.

But, small failures along the way make room for redemption. And redemption can be as simple as the aforementioned gangly teenager running ahead to the teahouse to secure lunch reservations for a party of nine.

The popovers will be better than we remembered, and we wouldn’t have to battle wasps for the strawberry jam.

It’s not like you really get to pick the moments in your life that become memorable.

The moments pick you.

A quiet house

I don’t appreciate my children enough. 

It’s raining. The house smells of floor cleaner and wet dog.

Not as unpleasant as it sounds. It has been worse.

If my children were home, they'd be singing to themselves in a happy, repetitive way that infuriates me. Or they'd be arguing with each other until I felt the need to intervene. They'd leave their socks in the crevices of the furniture. Their dishes would pile up somewhere other than the kitchen sink. They might even be complaining about losing at Fortnite, and how some kids' parents are getting them, online coaches, the emphasis being on but not my parents.

But they aren't here.

The house is so silent. It’s eerie.

Aside from the resident canine, the place is clean. Or as clean as an old house can be after the children who live there have packed up all their prized possessions and disappeared with them for a parent-less visit with grandma in Maine.

As they soak up the sun at the beach on that first day away, I will have soaked up whatever remains of a spill no one mentioned, and left to fester under the bunk bed.

That won’t be the only surprise. A discovery of seven teaspoons and six crusty cereal bowls will solve a dishwashing mystery that’s hounded me for weeks.

I will strip the sheets and launder the blankets. Gathering rumpled clothes into one big pile on the floor.

For the remainder of the day, the washer will mimic the comforting sound of the ocean.

I will rid their rooms of a years-worth of debris: packages and tags, bits of wrappers and cellophane that probably date back to the Christmas before last.

I will vacuum and mop. I will fluff and fold. I will tuck things neatly into drawers and smooth out fresh linens over their beds.

Upstairs, downstairs: I will go from one task to another without taking a break. 

On that first day, I will be too busy to miss them.

When they call, later on, we will talk about their day and how it was filled with sand and surf and too much sun. The boy will be brief, wanting to get back to his spare allotment of time for his treasured devices.

The girl will take her time, explaining in detail how much fun she’s having balanced on how much she misses me ... mostly, this complicated calculation hinges on how she didn't appreciate how my lack of structure has increased her overall sense of independence.

But mainly because our seasonal rescinding of bedtime rules has been rendered null and void under this “new management.”

Maybe we should intervene, my husband ventures over dinner out. The second restaurant meal since the children’s departure.

I shake my head.

“When in London you have to drive on the left.”

He looks at me blankly.

What I mean is: It won’t kill them to follow someone else’s rules.

It may even make them appreciate us more.

They may not have fortnite lessons, but they have a grandmother, an ocean, and parents heading their way. Maybe grandma can get them to pick up their socks.