Friday, July 24, 2009

Summer Vacation

So, I am quickly approaching my last day of summer vacation. It's not that I dislike my job; I just like my other job as a mom so much better. And writing? I love writing. If I could write full-time and parent full-time... I'm working on that.

Anyway, this year's vacation was filled with day trips. Scott and I are homebodies, and roadwarriors. We like to sleep in our own bed, eat at our own table, and remain "within our element". And miles driven? Between the two of us, I think we have the most miles driven of any couple not driving professionally. We love to be behind the wheel and see the scenery rushing past our window. We love watching the road open up ahead of us, hearing the voices of our loved ones behind us, and flipping through local radio stations to get a feel for the community. Driving gives you a sense of accomplishment; it is the validation when you say you travelled. Best of all, driving lets you stop along the way to "smell the roses", as they say. We stop at roadside stands for produce or homemade goods; we stop to take a look at scenery only found when winding down mountain passes or running parallel to the coast. And this country is home to some of the most unusual sights, the most beautiful landscapes, the most personal history, and the most interesting people you could ever want to encounter.

So this week, we loaded up the car and put some miles on. We had a great time and did some new things, but more importantly, we developed as a family. There is truth to the adage "The family that plays together, stays together." As I look over and see all four children sitting shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, either playing a game or watching the others -- no TV, no bickering (for now) -- I am thankful for the blessing of my family, my husband who shares my vision of family , and the indescribable benefits of summer vacation.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Old Movies

My best recollection of going to a Drive-In movie with my parents was going to see "Song of the South" and "Aristocats". Dating myself? Perhaps. My father worked two jobs, one of them swing shift, which made owning one vehicle difficult. So, while my parents couldn't imagine owning a new car, for as long as I remember we did own two very used, sometimes unreliable vehicles. My brother's summer birthday was probably commemorated more frequently along the side of the road, waiting for our station wagon to cool down, than actually on the beach. Funny, it's the roadside celebrations we thought were the coolest and most likely remember best. Not that different from our Drive-In experience.

As it was with most parents of the sixties, mine would put us in our PJ's, pack up some snacks, and off we'd go. I remember disliking the whole "PJ thing" because we couldn't play on the playground while waiting for the movie to start; I'd watch the other children sliding and swinging and vow never to subject my children to such injustices. And "packing your own snacks"? What was that? Other parents dropped small fortunes for popcorn, pickles and hot dogs at the Refreshment Stand; mine provided store-bought bags of M&M's and boxes of Ju-Jy Fruits for a fraction of the cost but, as a fellow "packer" (and "PJ'er") I admit, a fraction of the experience. On this particular occasion, I believe it was sometime during "Song of the South" when it began to rain; by the time "Aristocats" had started, it was a monsoon -- and the wipers had stopped working. I remember having to leave, I remember putting up a fight, but if you asked me anything about either of those movies today, I couldn't even tell you the plot. In all likelihood, my brother and I were probably squabbling in the backseat instead of watching the movie anyway.

So, in the interest of nostalgia, last night Scott and I packed up the troops and headed to the Drive-In for a double feature. That's two movies for one low, low price there, Kiddies! We packed and PJ'd and drove over an hour -- but this was nostalgia, right? Just driving into the place, I wanted to stay forever. I remembered so little of Drive-In logistics, aside from the crackling little box that rested on your window; they don't do that anymore -- tune your radio to some obscure, low frequency radio station and the magic of Hollywood enters your car via those speakers that usually thump with Top 40. At the Drive-In, your car becomes your time machine.

Scott and I held the debate Face Front vs. Face Rear; I stewed because, in the interest of keeping the peace, I conceded to Face Front. He stewed because he knew I was stewing. Madison and Olivia sat sighing and looking wistfully at the playground and the Refreshment Stand (they hadn't eaten well at dinner and weren't allowed snacks). We'd placed the two oldest out front on camping chairs and now they were complaining about the mosquitoes. About 5 minutes before showtime, as much as we tried to deny, it was raining, and raining hard enough we had to bring Christine and Joe in. 15 minutes of "He's sitting on me!" "Well, where am I supposed to sit?!" and standing in the rain while camping chairs were stowed and blankets and pillows were distributed. Another 10 minutes of "I can't see" "It's hot in here"... Aah, the Good Old Days. I wondered, "Is this what our parents had to put up with?" I could almost hear their voices, "Amateurs."

We finally found our groove and, despite the rough start, had a great time. Later, as credits rolled and we pulled out of the parking lot, I could almost feel 2009 creeping its way back into the car. The kids had either been asleep, or fell asleep within minutes. Scott and I barely spoke on the way home, as if the sound of our voices would break the spell. We did, however, share "knowing" glances; we had given our children a glimpse of our histories -- what it was really like when we were their ages. Scott silently backed our time machine into the drive, stowing it for another day. We slogged our way up the front steps some time around 3 AM, dumping our gear at the front door, and dropping children into bed, speaking nothing above a whisper. We turned out the lights and, I think, mumbled "Good Night".