Kiss of Pavement

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Last year, you might recall we took the kids camping for a few weeks and ended up living through our own version of A Series of Unfortunate Events. There was a terrible sunburn for me, weeks of miserable hives (also for me), and among other things, a myriad of parts that broke on our trailer. We also found a leak that invited bugs under the floor in one area, and had to cut that piece of linoleum out. Given that, it may seem bizarre we’ve decided to do it again, but we are.

I may be mildly (okay, horrifically) bad luck prone, and my sense of coordination has never been the sort that made athletics a smart idea, but still, we were excited to pack up and travel that ten minutes from home to the campground. Campfire pizza pies and s’mores called to us. Thoughts of swimming, kayaking, and family picnics drew us in. Ever optimistic, I took precautions so I wouldn’t burn and break out in full body hives like the freak of nature that I am. SPF 70 is surprisingly difficult to find, but I hunted until we located a couple bottles of it. I have a thin, silky jacket to help protect me from the sun. Picked up a couple large and ridiculously gaudy sun hats. Two different types of antihistamines.

We brought only our oldest son with us to help set up, since we were close enough to home to run back once we were finished. Found a nice site with nothing but woods behind us, which is more peaceful than when your rig is surround by others, and what we prefer when camping. Lady Luck, it appeared, was on our side. I knew this trip was going to be great. I even had a new swimsuit I was looking forward to trying out. After we set up the trailer, we went home to finish getting the kids’ things together, and as they were all complaining about their imminent death by starvation, we ordered a couple of pizzas, ate at the house, then left the kids and dogs home while we ran up to buy some groceries.

We’d gotten a rather late start that first day, so we didn’t make it to the grocery store until around 10 p.m., but we were full of adrenaline and happily making plans for cooking out over the weekend. Everything was working out perfectly for us. Even the weather forecast was on our side.

Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Right?

We were back to our house by 11, and it was pitch dark outside. We had purchased some extra food to leave at the house, and our plan was to just drop that off, pick up the kids and the dogs, and get back to the trailer. I hopped out of the car, thought my husband was likely getting exhausted from his long day of work, then setting up the campsite, then grocery shopping, so I decided I’d help him carry in the few groceries to the house.

That’s where it all went wrong.

I turned, rounded the driver’s side of the Yukon, felt a horrendous hot pain going from my right big toe and straight up my leg.

Next thing I knew, I was airborne.

I had forgotten about that part of our driveway that’s got an uneven spot, where some of the concrete has settled down lower than the rest. In the darkness, I didn’t see it.

I struck that part with my right foot, and felt something crack. My first thought was that I had broken my big toe. I felt some kind of crack in the center of it.

My second thought was that I was about to land face first on the pavement.

There was nothing for me to grab on to so I could break my fall. I was too far away from the Yukon to catch hold of anything. My daughter had her back to me and was walking toward the house. My husband was behind the vehicle. No help from any direction.

I landed with a thud on the concrete. I felt the skin rip off my knee and the palm of my left hand.

A single inelegant and rather grunty-sounding word escaped my lips. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”

My husband hurriedly came around the corner of the vehicle. He stared at me for a moment, then asked, “What are you doing?

(Kissing the pavement, it looked lonely) “Um, I fell.”

“You fell? Over what?”

I begin laughing like a hyena with a dime bag who has just gotten busted by the cops. “Um… think I broke my toe.”

He helped me up and into the house. Once we were in the light, I caught a visual of my mangled right big toe and immediately wished I hadn’t. I plunked down into the part of the couch that has the recliner in it, and put the leg rest up. Ow, ow, ow, ow. The kids crowded around me, worried.

My left hand and knee were scraped up pretty good and my knee was good and bloody. Those were things that hurt, but not terribly. My toe, however, was in an awful lot of pain. I was thinking back to times I have broken other toes, attempting to remember the exact feeling or what the signs and symptoms of a broken toe might be. I closed my eyes, trying to think, but doing so was difficult because, A: jolts of hot pain were biting up the nerves in my legs, causing me to shake, and 2: three of my kids were crowded around me, shouting at me things I guess I have said or maybe yelled at them over the years in the aftermath of an injury.

Kid 1: “I think we need to take her to the urgent care clinic.”

Kid 4: (patting my shoulder frantically) “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay! It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, everything’s okay!”

Kid 3: (plunks his hand down on my thigh, affects a deep and manly voice) “Here, Mom, squeeze my hand. Put your pain into it. I can take it. Squeeze as hard as you can.”

Kid 1: “Get a wash cloth! Somebody get a wash cloth! We need to clean her up!”

Kid 4: “Does anybody know what kind of music she likes? Let’s put on Pandora! Mom, what Pandora do you like?”

Kid 3: “That’s stupid. Shut up. She doesn’t need music right now!”

Kid 4: “MUSIC IS VERY CALMING, I READ ABOUT IT! I’M NOT STUPID!”

Kid 1: “I don’t like the way she’s shaking. I think she’s going into shock.”

Husband: “Just go run her foot under some water, then dump peroxide on it. Kills the germs.”

Kid 1: “She can’t walk! We need to take her to a clinic!”

Me: “Clinics are closed, and I’m not going to ER for this. Just give me a minute here.”

Kid 4: “Parts of her toe are hanging off. Does she know that?”

Kid 3: “Squeeze my hand, Mom. Somebody get her some water! We need water over here!”

Kid 1: “She’s still shaking. I’m worried. Mom? Mom, can you hear me? We need to take her somewhere.”

Husband: “I don’t know. You wanna go somewhere? Your toe is pretty messed up. Needs to be cleaned… and uh, I can’t do that. Um, I think you ripped the nail off.”

Kid 4: (frantically patting my shoulder, my head, my leg) “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

Kid 3: “Here, Mom. I got you some water. Can you sip it? That’s good, that’s good. I got her to take some water!”

Kid 1: “Could she be having a seizure? Did she hit her head?”

Me: “I’m not having a seizure. I just need a minute to calm back down.”

Kid 1: “Okay, I’m going to help you clean up your knee. There’s a lot of blood, but I’ll be very gentle, okay?”

Kid 3: “It’s gonna hurt, Mom. Go ahead, squeeze my hand hard, I can take it.”

Kid 1: “Somebody get a bowl of water to put her foot in. There could be dirt up under that nail.”

Husband: (brings enormous salad bowl full of water)

Me: (gingerly dips foot into water while trying not to look)

*phone rings*

*husband answers*

Apparently kid 2 and her boyfriend are sitting in the dark at the campground getting hassled by security because we thought we would be right over there, but we evidently aren’t, so they are sitting there at midnight with no key to the trailer and no membership card to prove they are actually supposed to be there.

Husband: “Just tell them to call my cell phone then! Oh my God! Why can’t anything ever just go right!”

Kid 4: “Cool. Look at all the blood in the bowl!”

Kid 3: “Shut UP! Don’t tell her there’s blood. It’s okay Mom. There’s hardly no blood. It’s fine, it’s fine.”

Husband: “What bowl do we need for the party tomorrow? For you to take that dessert in?”

Me: “Uh, the blue one. With the lid.”

Kid 1: “Mom can’t talk about making dessert right now! She’s INJURED!”

Kid 4: “Can I play Pokemon Go at the campground?”

Kid 3: “Step back, let me take care of this. I was a Boy Scout. I have first aid training!”

Someone has brought Band-aids and some gauze, so we dry off the mangled toe and hurriedly cover the mess. Once I don’t have to look at it, the pain begins to diminish. The shaking settles down. I’m running through a list in my mind of what medication I have on hand that might help. All I can think of is Motrin and some of the heavy-duty antihistamines, both back at the trailer.

We have three vehicles to get back to the campground, so I know I have to drive. After I get myself composed and my husband has gotten the rest of the stuff we need packed up, I hobble back out to my vehicle. We form a little caravan as we drive through the night. It takes me a little longer to get to the campground than usual, but finally we make it.

Eventually I sleep. I dream of meeting new people and all of them are missing a hand or a foot.

The next day was busy. We had a party to get to, and some shopping that still needed done. I clutched the cart through Wally World, thinking gratefully of the evening, when I could sit in my lawn chair with my throbbing foot up and work on a blanket I’m crocheting. My husband says, “Let’s go look at the bikes.”

Bikes. Sure.

Over the winter, we had been talking about buying new bikes for us. The last time we bought new bikes for ourselves, our 20-year-old daughter was 3 months old.

Sure, I said. Let’s go. I was thinking we could look quick before we left. What could it hurt? I was watching the time, though. I had promised the party host I would come back and help clean up.

Leaning against the cart, I shuffled around the corner to the bike aisle.

And that’s when I saw it.

The most glorious bike that ever happened.

Turquoise and bright yellow, with a matching basket on the front (obviousy to put my yorkie in), it said, “Margaritaville” down the middle bar, and had a small parrot on the handle that squeaked when pushed.

The seat was flowered.

“This one,” I said. “I want it.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, wary. “Are you gonna fall off it and get hurt again?”

“No, no. I’m fine. Get this one. It’s beautiful.”

And it is.

I love it.

But I have to admit, with my history of poor luck and general clumsiness, I was a little worried when I took it for my first ride.

So far, so good.

And I don’t even need that big toe to balance on my bike.

I hope the rest of this trip is entirely uneventful.

Is there some sort of “Uneventful, boring trip” dance we could do, you know, like a rain dance, to keep things smooth and chill for a while? I mean, obviously I can’t do the dance, I’ve got a mangled big toe. But surely someone could be willing. My youngest son seems to suddenly have more energy than he knows what to do with.

If I withheld Pokemon  Go from him for a while, I could probably bribe him to do it.

If my luck suddenly turns around, you’ll know I’ve got an adolescent I’m forcing to dance for me like a little marionette, taunting him with promises of catching a Snorlax if he just dances for me one more time.

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The Camping Hell Vacation.

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For the last two weeks, we’ve been camping.

We haven’t been that far from home, as my husband didn’t actually have time off work. But we went anyway, seeking a bit of respite from the everyday noise we live day in, day out.

Before we left, we talked about how we’d relax, sit in the sun. Swim every day. Take the kayaks out.

These were nice thoughts.

We came to the campground on a Saturday and set up the trailer. If you’ve ever done this, you’ll know it’s pretty well an all day job. If you haven’t, watch the movie RV with Robin Williams.

Then you will know. You will understand.

That first day is sort of exhausting, especially when you add in four kids and two dogs.

So anyway.

We get in, right, find a good spot with enough of a back lot to set up a few games and it’s got a good fire pit. Close to the outdoor pool. We pull in, get the rig leveled, get it unhooked from the Yukon.

At that point in the day, it was about six thousand degrees in the sun. We all were drenched in sweat, carrying around equipment, getting the electric and water hooked up, hauling out camping chairs.

Finally, we were done.

Problem: we had not yet purchased any food for this impromptu little trip. The trailer was too hot to leave the dogs in while we left, so we took them with us, even though my 5 year old dog, Zoey, is hysterical about car rides.

I don’t mean hysterical in a good way, either. Everyone was hot and hungry, and of course the kids were complaining, when do we get to eat, Mom, Mom, Mom, we’re dying Mom, Mom? Mom! We’re starving to death! MOM! So we think, God, we’ll just grab Taco Bell right quick, then go buy groceries. No campfire tonight.

But it was still awfully hot outside, and we worried that if we left the dogs in the car it would be too hot, and if we rolled the windows down while we ate, there was a likelihood that Zoey would attempt escape, due to her aforementioned vehicle hysteria.

Problem: What to do with the dogs while we eat and shop for groceries? Bingo! Husband has a brilliant idea, he’ll drive up the road a few miles, leave the dogs with his brother. Pick them up when we’re done.

So we drop the dogs off, and as we’re pulling out, they’re staring at us out the window, forlorn, clearly we’ve abandoned them, Mom? Mom? Mom! Where are you going? MOM! DON’T LEAVE US HERE TO DIE!

And the kids in the backseat: Mom? Mom! Are we going to eat now? Can we eat? What are we going to eat? Why can’t we eat right this second? Is food going to happen soon?

So we get to Taco Bell. Manage a fairly uneventful meal. Head to the local grocery store.

This was about eleven at night. My daughter decides she’s too exhausted from the day to be able to shop with us, so she stays in the car. Husband, me, and three kids head in. This is an unfamiliar grocery store, so we’re walking slow, trying to find everything. Trying to think what we need, why didn’t we write a list? Our brains are too hot and too tired and too filled with tacos to think straight.

And the children all have their own sugar agendas. They take advantage of our zombie-like state. Mom? Mom! They wave boxes around at us. Can I have this? Please! I need this! Mom? Mom! I’ve never had a triple berry cream cheese chocolate icing covered Danish! I NEED THIS! PLEASE! Lemon bars? Mom? Mom! MOMMOMMOMMOMOMOM! Fruit snacks? Bananas! OH MY GOD! Look! New flavors of Doritos! PLEEEEAAAASSSEEE! We give in on things we never ever buy. What the heck. It’s vacation. Sort of. In some way. We’re camping five miles from home. Still.

Also, we are too tired to read ingredients. Husband and I meet eyes over the yelps of the children. We know what we want. Oh yeah. We nod at each other, smiling slowly.

Sleep. We want sleep.

As long as whatever the kids are throwing in the shopping cart doesn’t sport a poisonous decal on the side, we don’t care. Whatever. Let’s just get this miserable job done.

Also, I slipped a couple of clearance rack tank tops and a sweater in, because I’ve lived with my husband for over twenty-two years now, and I perceived he was too tired to realize what I was doing.

But I mean, heck. It’s vacation.

Finally, we finish. Pick the dogs back up. Drive out to the campground. Try to keep everyone quiet so no cranky neighbors call security on us, because it’s happened before (when one of my kids was laughing out loud at two a.m.) and we haul all the groceries into the trailer. Put them away. Think longingly about sleep. Sleep. SLEEEEEEEP.

Tomorrow will be fun, kids. Mom promises. But right now you all need to just shut up and go nighty night, okey dokey artichokey?

After a brief episode about people fighting over which beds they get, the kids start getting their beds ready. This is where the vacation started to take a left turn.

Sort of, veered off the road and off a cliff, into a lake, as it were.

My daughter was folding down the couch bed and froze. “Uh…Mom?” She sounded sort of panicked.

I mumble something to the effect of, “Whaaa…sleep…sshhhh…”

“The floor is broken. I mean, cracked. I mean, the floor under the couch is ripping apart.”

Oh. Yay.

Surely this can’t be right. The floor was perfectly fine at the end of last summer, the last time we used the trailer. I go to inspect.

But she’s right. There is a long tear in the linoleum. I slump my shoulders and go to tell my husband.

He kneels down to check it out. Grabs a piece of linoleum, rips it right apart. “There’s water under here,” he says. “Standing water. I wonder where that’s coming from. Get the flashlight.”

I get the flashlight. He inspects further. “Oh,” he says. “There’s bugs down here, too.”

“BUGS!” my daughter screams, grabbing her bedding and jumping to the bunk bed, where her brother is already half-asleep.

Probably termites, I think. That would be our luck.

We get towels. Soak up the water. Husband takes a knife and cuts out a giant chunk of the linoleum. He is fascinated with the bugs. I am fascinated with the thought of sleep.

He asks Siri about the bugs. Siri says they are mold mites.

“OH MY GOD THE BUGS!” my daughter is shouting. “THIS IS THE MOST DISGUSTING THING TO EVER HAPPEN OH MY GOD!”

So by the time we get the mess cleaned up, and the bugs safely vacuumed away, it’s about four in the morning. Finally, time to sleep.

Except, it began to rain. It rained and it rained and thundered and the lightning was so bright, it kept lighting up the entire trailer. And my husband kept getting up to check on the floor, see if more water was coming in. At some point, he went to the bathroom, where he found water coming in from the little skylight, and mopped that up, left a towel down. Mumbled something about fixing it tomorrow.

Eventually, the rain stopped. And that’s when we heard the clack-clack-clacking sound coming from the air conditioner.

We turned the fan up, then down. Fooled with the temperature. Husband took some mysterious part of the AC unit down, inspected it. Couldn’t figure it out. Swore. Mumbled. Put it back together.

Monday he had to work. And at work, he kept thinking about the reason the little skylight might be leaking. So when he got back to the campground that afternoon, he grabs the ladder, climbs up on top of the trailer, and instructs me to go into the bathroom, and crank the handle until he says stop.

So I do. He’s crouched up above the thing, this little plastic dome, pushing, pushing, as I crank. I can see his face turning red. It’s hot outside. He’s determined to fix SOMETHING.

But the thing would not shut all the way. And I had cranked it all the way down. I see this look of resolve pass across his face, and I think, DON’T. But…he does.

He takes his palm and slams it against the plastic. It shatters, and little bits of plastic and sawdust rain down on my head. I think, this is beginning to feel like we are trapped in some version of a National Lampoon’s Never ending Miserable Camping Vacation movie.

So now, he’s stomping around on top of the trailer. Muttering, cussing, talking about burning the trailer down, the stupid piece of bleep bleep bleep, wishes he’d never bought the mother effing bleep bleep bleep, can’t get a break no matter how hard he tries, etcetera.

My son stands frozen for a second, then hollers, “Um, Dad, I’ll run up to the camp store, see if I can find anything to fix it! Maybe they got…I dunno…duct tape or something!” and off he runs.

Smart boy, I think. I wish I had thought of a reason to run.

Instead, I stay put, cleaning up the mess. Listening to husband have a breakdown on top of the trailer.

Lightbulb! I say, Hey, I’ll go up to the camp store and see if they have a service out here, or know a company that does on site repair.

Husband waves at me to go on and go, disgusted with the trailer, with himself for pushing too hard, with camping, with life in general, why can’t he just be a single guy with an easy life, living on a beach in Florida.

So I get a name of a company, bring it back. He calls, leaves a message. We sit at the trailer the remainder of the day, waiting for the company to call back, or show up. They don’t.

Finally, later the next day, a big, burly woman in a van pulls in to our campsite. I show her the problems we are having. She checks the air conditioner. She checks the little skylight.

She tells me to tell my husband to quit trying to fix things. I do not relay this advice to my husband.

She fixes the skylight, but can’t do much other than super glue a piece of the air conditioner, something about the fan blade blah blah, but they don’t make them anymore, blah blah, hope this glue will just hold on for a little while, anyway kids. That’ll be two hundred bucks, thanks, call me anytime.

At that point, my kids had invited some friends out to stay over. They were looking forward to going up to swim, do some fun stuff. I stayed back at the trailer as the repair lady fixed our broken stuff. I think, well, anyway, I can enjoy the sun. Sit out here and crochet, read, work on my new novel.

I put on sunblock, but burnt through it anyway, as I generally do, because I got the fair Irish skin of my ancestors. I went in, put a little aloe on, came back out to work, tried to find a slightly shadier spot.

My skin feels weird. More than the painful feeling of burnt skin. It feels…I don’t know. Can’t figure it out. Itchy, I guess. Itchy on top of the sunburn. Several hours later, I realize this is not just sunburn. It’s a rash. A terribly itchy, painful, burnt, filled with hives, rash. I drink some Nyquil, as it’s the only thing with antihistamine in it that I’ve got at hand.

The next day the rash was worse. I went out, bought some Benedryl, and some Benedryl cream. I think, surely this will clear up soon. I can’t think of anything strange I’ve gotten into. I begin to wonder if the nice woods behind our lot has something poisonous in it. Wouldn’t that be just my luck?

We went up to go play mini golf with the kids. On the way, the service airbags light comes on in my Yukon.

Next day, husband goes to work, I take the Yukon in to be serviced. No problem, bad sensor, have fixed by this afternoon, that’ll be two hundred eight-three dollars, thanks, call us anytime, pleasure working with you.

By then, the rash had worsened and was making me so insane with the itchiness, I made myself a doctor appointment. Doctor looks me over, questions me, decides I am allergic to the sun, puts me on steroids.

“…and Valarie?” she says as I’m leaving. “Try to stay out of the sun.”

No swimming for me. No kayaking. This sucks.

But all of this was worth it, totally worth it, guys. Because of one conversation.

My husband was making a big breakfast the other day, outside. French toast, sausage patties, eggs. As he was getting ready to cook, the older man camped next to us wandered over, struck up a conversation. He was a nice guy, said he was seventy-five, and his eyes were lined from frequent smiles, and his skin was tan. The kids were still half-asleep, and I brought out my little crochet bag, sat down under the awning in my lawn chair, and got back to work on a granny square blanket I’d been working on.

The man looked at me and grinned. “Hey,” he says. “My wife used to do that. That thing…”he waved at my hand holding the crochet hook, “that thing with the, the hook there, and the uh, string. Er, thread. Yarn. Whatever.”

I smile pleasantly. “Oh yeah? That’s nice.”

“Yup. She did that for years, but she give it up now. Now she does needlework.”

“Mmmhhmmn.”

He suddenly slaps my husband hard on the back. “Do you know what she used to make? Peter warmers!”

My husband’s eyes widen. He coughs. He mumbles something indeterminate.

The man carries on. “Made them all the time. It was great. Birthdays, Christmas. Peter warmers, all the time. Like a gag, see.”

Husband says something along the lines of, “Oh yeah, hhmmn, nice, haha.”

They stand in silence for a few moments, sipping coffee, staring at the woods. The man breaks out into he-hawing laughter. “Goddam peter warmers, for Christ sake! Hahahahaha!” He slaps my husband on the back again. My husband laughs obediently.

“Warmers! For peters!”

Now they are both laughing so hard, they are bent down, coffees forgotten on the picnic table, holding their knees, quite literally hooting, laughing so hard the sound becomes just repetitive harsh, raspy breaths shoved out through ridiculously wide smiles.

As soon as they’d begin to settle down, the man would hoot again and shout, “Goddam peter warmers! PETER WARMERS!” and off they’d go again.

“Peter warmers! So they don’t get cold!”

Finally, the man says, “Well, I’ll let you get back to making breakfast. Good talking to ya!” and heads back to his trailer. My husband stands, spatula in hand, watching the man’s legs disappear around the side of his camper. Once they are safely inside and we’ve heard the door close, my husband slid over to me and whispered, “Was that guy talking about peter warmers? Is that really what he said? I wasn’t entirely sure…”

And that was when the dark clouds rolled in out of nowhere, and the winds were suddenly 60 MPH, and the kids and their friends started running around, trying to catch things that were suddenly airborne, like our yorkie, and the platter of sausages flipped over and blew away…

Moments

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The morning was bright, so bright I had to squint even behind my sunglasses. Slathered in sunblock, we headed to the kayak rental booth; me, my oldest daughter (17), my two sons (11 and 13), and their buddy. My other daughter (15) had stayed behind at the travel trailer to “watch the dogs” – translation: sunbathe.

Taking four kids kayaking by myself? Crazy. But nobody ever testified in favor of my sanity.

Three yellow kayaks, and two lime green. Of course, my youngest son grabbed a lime green one. Lime green is his favorite color. Paddles in hand, we embarked on an hour-long kayak adventure toward a little island.

Right, left, right left. Paddles stabbing the water, moving along at the pace of a snail. Approximately five minutes down the lake, my youngest son, Brennan, tipped his kayak beneath a small fountain. Assuming he had done it on purpose, I gave a short lecture as we fished him from the seaweed-ish depths. Working together, we righted the green kayak, and deposited him safely back into his seat. Checked his life jacket, handed back his paddle. Off we went.

Again.

Right ,left, right, left.

“Mom?…..Mom!” My daughter, Olivia, called to me. I paddled a bit to the right, turning my little raft around to see what the problem was. “I don’t think Brennan’s kayak looks right….there’s too much water.”

I looked….there he was. My smallish son – all 68 pounds of him – frantically cupping his tiny hands in an attempt to bail the rapidly rising water from his boat. “Moooooooooooooom!” (There had to be six syllables, at least, in that one little word.) “Water, water, water!”

There was, perhaps, an inch of green still visible above the water. My heart hiccupped in my chest, and I began to paddle toward him. I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Just climb into your sister’s boat, and we’ll hook the sinking one to your brother’s, and take it back and get a new one. Careful….careful!”

He did land in the water. Fortunately, he is a great swimmer. And had his life jacket on. And the water was, at its deepest, maybe 6 feet deep. Brennan sputtered a bit and spun in the water for a second and finally made it to cling and eventually climb into his sister’s kayak.

Back we went (what a workout!) to the kayak rental booth. Exchanged the kayak. Turns out, the original kayak had a tiny little hole in the back that should have had a plug in it. The plug was missing, causing the boat to fill with water.

Got the replacement kayak, and the five of us turned around – AGAIN – and set off for the island – AGAIN.

Right, left, right, left. Paddle, paddle, paddle.

Finally! We’d made it. Tipping the noses of the kayaks up onto the muddy shore, the three boys jumped out and initiated a game of chase around the little island. Olivia sat in her boat, content to watch. Donovan and his friend ran and ran. Brennan slipped away from the game, and silently climbed back down the hill. Bending down, he quietly scooped a lump of mud into his hand. Reaching his tiny arm back as far as he could – like a Little League pitcher ready to fire – he launched the mud missile at Olivia. Squealing, she jumped from her seat and chased him down.

I just watched.

The two older boys hooted and hollered like war-bound Indians in an old black-and-white movie. Olivia screamed at the top of her lungs, laughing, slipping, falling, jumping back up as she chased the boys.

I blinked and – for just a split-second of time – time flew in reverse. My now 17-year-old daughter was a pig-tailed, freckled little girl with shining eyes, running around that same island, asking for a picnic lunch, initiating a game of hide-n-seek.

I blinked again, and saw the beautiful young woman she has become….the young woman who is still not too old to play chase with her little brothers.

Brennan came screeching around the corner. Strong, summer-scraped-up legs pumping in the sand, his small freckled face upturned, catching the tunnel of light that stretched between the glaring sun and the glistening lake water.

Laughter erupts from all the children, melting into one continuous echo.

My chest fills with….what is that feeling?  I am filled to overflowing with…..joy.  With….family. With….with belonging. With…..home.

Time freezes….for those few blissful moments, no other families, worries, or needs exist. Just my family….my heart….my everything.

Water splashes.  The kids are hopping back into their kayaks, ready to go.

The moment has passed, but my heart is still so heavy, so filled up with this bit of time, I can hardly swallow.

I smile and stab at the water with my paddle.

Right, left, right, left.