I’m sitting at the very far corner of the coffee shop this morning, because I still smell vaguely of the skunk that sprayed our dog for the fourth time in a month. We’re calling the movie of our life right now, Skunkageddon: Revenge of the Rodents.
We hired a company to humanely trap the skunks and return them to whatever hell mouth they hail from. They’ve trapped twelve so far. Twelve. There are two sitting calmly in traps in the yard right now. This morning I locked beady eyes with one of them and tried to psychically communicate with him. I told him that we wished his family well, but would appreciate it if could they would all go across town and terrorize a Republican family instead.
Then I went inside and stared for a few minutes at the sole rotting avocado in the fridge, because I didn’t make it to the grocery store yesterday. Like if I stared hard enough, it might magically turn into an egg sandwich.
A study in opposites, my mind drifted back to Greece last week…
After we left Athens, the rest of our time was spent on an epic odyssey, exploring the beaches of Aegina and then driving through charming villages tucked into the folds of the Peloponnese Mountains. As I sit here annoyed by the guy on his cell phone next to me and vaguely nauseated by the residual skunk smell, I can remember drinking an iced coffee in the dappled light beneath the Sycamore tree that shaded the town square of Karyes. I remember standing quietly by the bell tower on the town’s tallest peak and listening to the goat bells echo through the hillsides. I remember eating grilled octopus in a seaside taverna, while the kids trolled the shoreline for sea urchins.
I don’t mean to over-romanticize…I can’t say Greece was relaxing, exactly. Vacations with active children who struggle with transitions are not generally relaxing. There were times I was so tired and brain-baked and T was acting like such a little jerk, I wanted to swan dive off one of those beautiful cliffs. There were also times I felt numb, like I couldn’t feel my life.
Or rather, I could feel my life, but they weren’t what I deemed the appropriate feelings- the awe and gratitude I believed to be equal to the scenery. I got mad at myself. I yearned for that pre-kid me, the one who would just drink it all in, content to roll with inconveniences, to drift wide-eyed through the world with five dollars in my pocket.
But there was this one moment…
One morning, we took a little boat to the tiny, uninhabited island of Moni, off the coast of Aegina. We played for a while on a gorgeous little crescent of beach, in the shadow of cliffs that contain caves where acetic monks once lived.
We walked over a little path that traversed the island and found ourselves in a deserted cove, with only a single sailboat anchored in the distance. The water was deep and you had to jump off the rocks to get in, but all the kids took the plunge eventually. After T jumped, I swam along next to him as he looked under the water with his goggles. He lifted his head and excitedly said, “THIS is what the ocean looks like!” As if the world and his dreams had fallen into line for a brief moment.
I looked around at the thousand shades of blue water, the cliffs rising above us, the cloudless sky, that smile of my son’s that can turn a whole day around, and I thought, “THIS is what Greece looks like.”
What I meant was, this is what sharing the world with my son looks like. Its moments of wonder can feel even richer for being harder won.
And that’s where I go in my mind this morning. Because, in the words of Gershwin, you can’t take that away from me…