I think it’s time for our family to call it a summer and go home. We’ve spent a week in Chincoteague, two weeks on the Gulf coast of Florida, and are now nearing the end of a week in the mountains of North Carolina.
I’ve been waking up around 3 AM every night, wishing I was at home where I feel I can better control our fate, where I know which stores are safest, where I can start to plan instruction for this wacky upcoming school year, where I can have a kitten curl up between us at night, dog at the foot of our bed, children tucked safely in their own rooms.
I’m not complaining about being away from home; I am aware of how fortunate I’ve been to have had a real summer. At times, I’ve even almost forgotten about the pandemic, though very fleetingly. I can probably count on one hand when it’s happened: when a dolphin swam under my paddle board (I swear he was smiling at me), when I beat Chris in badminton, when we waded through pools of water at the bottom of a waterfall, when Edwin accidentally smacked Maxine in the face with his knee in an forbidden game of indoor tag in the dark (nothing like administering a little first aid to distract you), on a moonlit walk down a mountain road, and taking the first sip of a perfect margarita followed by a chip with fresh guac. Okay, that’s more than one hand.
Still. It’s time to go home.
My Corner of the Village 