This weekend the boys and I went to the countryhouse. Sounds upitty, but it’s not. My great-nephew called it the “countryhouse” so it stuck. It’s fitting. It’s not a cottage, it’s a house, in the country.
In the crisp clean air, seagulls play melodies all day long, competing only with passing boats and the church chimes: tender symphonies of our childhood cranked through an ancient soundsystem. At night, the waves innocently reverberate and it sounds as if something in the dark expansive fields is trying to make its way to you. Alas, the spotlight reveals nothing to be afraid of. But the deer do roam in those fields and in the morning, if you’re quiet and up before the noise, you will see them, jumping through the long grass, playing their family games. They are weindeer. I’ve seen weindeer before. Mommy, can we go to the North Pole someday? Do you know the way? Maybe you can get Santa’s phone number and ask him.
A two-night sleepover at the country. Fishing off the government wharf. Low tide and a broken fishing rod. Disappointment for a six year old who was wide-eyed. But his brother shared his rod, reluctantly with moments of panic for Mommy, who anticipates the ensuing battle and the clumbsy pushing and shoving that are part of a boy’s life. The same pushing and shoving on a Government wharf at low tide is a Mother’s nightmare. So I panicked and Laurie brought me back. Thankfully.
Saturday morning, hazy and hot, we made our way to the beach. Now let me tell you, the beach as beautiful as it is, is meant to be enjoyed at dusk or sunrise or on a moonlit night. Not in the middle of a hot and humid afternoon with no relief and three children kicking sand over everything. The sand that grinds into the sunscreen and creates cement. The beach is not my thing, really. But we went. The water was just thawed from its winter’s sleep so no swimming on the agenda. The kids found fun though, as kids always will, with their redneck shovel and makeshift pails. Korey ran into the water and tripped. He got wet then spread out his towel to sunbathe. Where did he learn that? Not from me.
We spread out a bedsheet and enjoyed the playtime between the sand fights. An old, obviously male, dog provided some excitement and beach rocks and broken shells made their way home with us.
And, tired of reading, I wrote. I wrote a story. Well the beginning of a story based on a boat I saw coming in from sea. Laurie gave me the words Sex and Tropical. I wrote only a paragraph on those, but the story took breath and away it went. How much fun was that. Me, on the beach, on a bedsheet, watching my kids, writing. Perfect with ginger snaps.
Oddly, everyone wanted to leave but me.
Once again, the kids ran amuck in the Save Easy. I’m sure they’ll post our photos there soon. Do not let these people in. The kids are wild and the mother is crazy!
They stayed in the truck with Auntie at the LC.
Three boys, six, four and three. What moments of joy they bring. Korey clearly the bigger one. The Teacher to his two students. T is beng knd of bd, read the note to his Mom. Justin is beng good, read the other. Justin and T played volleyball at recess and T wouldn’t sit in his seat. But it was so cute. Cherish these days when they want to be near us, in the house where we know they are safe, at least from outside sources, but not always from each other.
A trip to see Poppy. Open the gate, swish away the horseflies and mosquitos and the tears. Who’s this momma? I’m walking on someone right now. I’m jumpin on Poppy’s head? Go ahead, I’m sure he’d love it. Three daughters and five grandsons, four of which he never knew beyond infancy. So Momma if I lay down you can bury me? You have to be dead first Justin, piped Korey. Another stop to visit more relatives and friends committed to the earth. So many innocent questions. I learned so much.
Mommy time was required early Saturday night, but didn’t happen till way past my boiling point. If kids are tired, why won’t they go to sleep? Downward dogs, kicking, punching, reading, more light, door open, have to pee, need a drink, another pee, I love you momma, I love you momma, Korey don’t touch me. Stop touching me. I want to cuddle her. They finally made it to their dreams without me.
Fire pits, laughter, Corona and smoke. A nice combination. I promised next year I’d play the guitar. Seems the music gene skipped a generation and it’s time to claw back some tunes on Mosher’s Hill. That is, if we can get everyone to stop laughing and eating cookies, and marshmallows and hotdogs and peanuts and dill pickle chips. I’d hate for someone to choke on a high note.
The kids always wake early at the country. A hard pill when Mommy time was enjoyed. But Sunday I was ok, really. Glad to wake up and see the sunshine. The temperature reached nearly 90°F well before noon. We take our time, move slowly, sip coffee and breathe in the air, the sounds and the memories. The morning tasted like french toast and bacon drizzled with syrup: sweet and filling, just like the weekend.
