Martha's Vineyard

Last Saturday, when we walked into the house for the first time, I peaked around, envisioning the fun we would have on vacation in Martha's Vineyard.


The patio table where we would serve Peter's fresh catch of the day for dinner.

The shed with sand toys, chairs, and a big umbrella - the perfect size to shade a big baby on the beach.


The outdoor shower where a day's worth of sand would be washed away.


The kitchen where my Dad would mix up Margaritas because the formerly dry town where we were staying didn't seem to carry them.


Four beautiful seaside bedrooms, where kids and adults alike would sleep soundly knowing they had lived their best day yet in the sun.


And the living room, where there was a puzzle.
I could have chosen to ignore it, but there it was, sitting on a puzzling table with two chairs and a lamp, begging me to do it when the rest of the house was asleep. I had work to do during naptime though. A book I could read. A nap I should have taken. But 1,000 pieces shouldn't be kept in a box and worse, apart - they too wanted to live their best day in the sun, together.


So after our first day, scoping out our part of the island, swimming at the beach, and polishing off a plate of fried oysters at the Black Dog Tavern, I set to work on the puzzle.


There is something so satisfying, relaxing and rejuvenating about doing a jigsaw puzzle. The organization of the pieces. That click you hear as one piece connects to another. The moment you figure out the frame and just how big the puzzle is going to be. When the blur of nothingness comes into focus and you see what's been hiding in front of you all along. The partner you express your frustrations to when you just can't seem to get the sky to cooperate. And that missing piece. The one that got away, or worse, the one that Margaret threw down the vent. Then the great rescue, tweezing it out, and putting that last piece in. Seeing it all come together. Feeling the bumpy surface. The accomplishment and glory.


Day after day, I put one by one of 1,000 pieces together, with help from my Dad and my Aunt Dee to form a scene straight out of the Vineyard. And as I worked on it, I thought about some of the pieces that I uncovered while on vacation.


Like the way you are really supposed to do laundry - i.e. give it the attention it deserves. Change it right away. Fold it right away. And savor that fresh laundry smell. Yes, I did laundry on vacation.


Naptimes and bedtimes are easier, when the kids are exhausted from an amazing day of play.


Long bike rides and runs are better when the views keeps changing.

Laughter is far better than stress.


Big waves are awesome.


Fireworks are overrated. Hamburgers on the grill are not.
The escalating price of added scoops of ice cream on Martha's Vineyard will never make sense.
My son is very, very tan.
Fish tastes better when it's fresh off the Skiff.
When there's a free concert in the park, you go. Especially when the band playing is the second oldest continuously playing band in the country.
Avoid the poison ivy.
Don't jump can sometimes mean go ahead and jump.


Watching your kids pick up rod and reel for the first time and catch their first fish; that's when the pieces just click together.


And seeing your husband in his element, in the light that best frames all his features, makes you wish you could stay in this place forever.

Finally, experiencing vacation the way it's supposed to be, is invaluable. Turn on the 'out of office' message, put away the powerpoint, and then remind yourself to put it away again. And just be, truly be with your family. That's what vacation is about.


Cause life is so short. Work is really hard. Motherhood is often times mayhem. Vacation is meant to be a vacation. So take it, absorb it, document it, and then keep working hard so you can take vacation again, making the next one more epic than the last.
Monday, here I come.


Lo.







Lo.

Together

On yet another plane, on yet another day of mom life, I snuck into the first class section to use the bathroom. It was easier than usual because I was one of five or six remaining adults on the plane - no elitist in sight to right my wrongs. As I crept forward, I signaled to Peter back in row 23 that he needed to keep an eye on Margaret and Mary; they were sound asleep and I didn't want them to roll from slumber to icky airplane floor wakefulness. He moved forward and stood halfway between his row, where Bobby was also sleeping, and mine.


When I returned, we reassessed our strategy in the middle of the aisle, as yet another passenger squeezed past us to deplane in hopes of a better night sleep in a hotel in Indianapolis.



We were on the way back from Pittsburgh, where we celebrated Father's Day with my family. Typically, it's the easiest flight - up, down, 55 minutes, 3 kiddo cat naps, 1 bag of pretzels, 0 bathroom breaks. Home.




This time, not so easy. We encountered weather outside of Chicago, circled, and then were diverted to Indianapolis where we sat and sat and sat without an indication that we would make it home that evening. I ate Oreos for dinner; gratis first class snacks from the flight attendant who found pity on us. Somehow they didn't taste quite as good from my grounded state in steerage. I opened up my computer and used my normal sleeping hours to do some extra work.


A couple hours later, they said we were going to take off and fly through a clearing in the radar. With lightning bolts streaking the sky outside my window, we landed in Chicago early the next morning. Four hours later, I was up again getting ready for the week ahead.




Even though we were grounded, we encountered more weather as the week progressed. Literal rainy days, giving the weeds license to take over more and more turf in my flower beds. And then figurative weather. The realization that my project wasn't going to meet the timeline; the presentation where you start with 'here was the aim ... now here's the adjust.' Words that never go over well. The nanny called off sick. And I scrambled to find coverage in time to catch my train. Then it happened again. Another scramble, another mad dash to the train, another soggy morning in the city, socks sloshing from meeting to meeting.


On Friday afternoon, as Peter asked how I was doing with an emphatic TGIF attached to it, I wondered if there was actually anything to be excited about. But as I walked home to relieve my cousin, Jane, who had saved my day, I saw a little sunshine peak through the clouds, and I decided to let it in.




Because at the end of a rather sour week, I was coming home to my kids. They were there, happy as can be. They had been fed, had taken a nice afternoon nap, had played, learned a thing or two, and experienced the best of life. An hour later, Peter arrived home too. And we were together, looking forward to a weekend that celebrated family. Cherished togetherness.


As I reflect on these photos, I realize the luxuries that life affords me. Togetherness being one of them.


Last week at Mass, with a heavy heart and stern voice, Father Bill delivered a moving homily to a receptive congregation. He shared his sorrow and shame at families being torn apart, the internment of children, and the state of our immigrant country. He ended by nearly whispering, 'We need a prayer. We need a prophet. We need God.'


I can't get his words, and more, his relinquished tone, out of my mind.


Togetherness is not a luxury. It's a human right. And we should stop at nothing to preserve it for all.


Lo.