Separation

Summertime, and the living is easy. Isn’t that how it goes? Our summer has been a bit different this year. Slow and easy. And full of separation pains.

We didn’t take our annual family vacay at the beach for the first time in sixteen years, so we (I) feel out-of-sync. I guess that’s what happens when my oldest is lucky to have some steady jobs that are filling his “meals and entertainment” coffers for college.

We just returned from what I will call an “orbiting vacation,” taking Josi to an invitation-only national camp while we visited extended family and close friends and discovered the impressive and not-so-impressive sights and people along the way. We didn’t set foot in the Piggly Wiggly a second time, opting to drive miles for groceries. Have you seen Deliverance? (It didn’t help that Mark kept humming the theme song.)

We ended up in a Wal-Mart, stopping traffic in aisle after aisle, gawked at by the locals. Apparently they had never seen a family like ours. Gosh, and we only had two of our four… Luckily the kids were too busy shopping to notice the rubberneckers.

Our orbiting vacation was on a lovely lake in the middle of nowhere, however the sunsets and sunrises were beautiful. The kids enjoyed the pool, although it was too warm to cool off in. I kept praying someone was going to appear and backwash it, but no, that didn’t happen. The heat index was between 110° to 115° each day with no breeze. Yuk.

I experienced darned near withdrawal symptoms because the internet service was so poor that my AT&T card couldn’t rescue me. Terribly painful for a writer in the middle of book edits.

The takeaway was that Mark and I were exposed to what it will be like when our kids leave the nest. It should be of no surprise to any of you to know that we didn’t enjoy it and don’t look forward to it. We love having all of us around. We go together like peas and carrots.  

Holden made that discovery as well. I’m sure it was all hunky-dory with him when we left—six days on his own—however that  quickly changed. Perhaps he wouldn’t admit it to anyone except us, but the call logs on our cells don’t lie. Our eighteen-year-old called a minimum of six times each day. And after he had a meet and greet with a local phone pole, well, being home alone wasn’t so great. (He’s fine. The car isn’t.)

Imagine. Risky Business had been flitting in and out of my head. Ahem…