When I am at the lake I don’t care. I don’t care that the Wii fit calls me obese. I happily wear my tankini. Every day. All day.
I don’t care that there are dishes piled in the sink. Someone will deal with them eventually. The kitchen cabinets in this rental are full to overflowing with plates and cups and glasses anyway.
I don’t care that my children haven’t washed their hair in a week. It’s sticking out at odd angels, and turning an interesting shade of green ... who is there to see it but the fish?
I don’t care about news, or the weather ... it’s sunny here ... why would I need to know about flooding and tornadoes? (As long as they aren’t heading this way)
I don’t care that my kids are surviving on fizzy drinks and crisps. They eat the odd apple, and yesterday I cut up some celery. Tonight I cooked pasta (and added sauce from a jar ... extravagance!)
Today we jumped in the lake. Again and again. And again. The kids and their Daddy fished off the dock. They caught bluegill after bluegill and learnt how to take the hook out without hurting the fish (or themselves.) They caught a massive carp, and marveled at its huge sucking jaws, thankful it didn’t have teeth. The bass evaded Daddy’s line yesterday, but today he was lucky. A happy man, my husband.
I swung in the hammock in the sun, strung between two tall skinny oaks, and thought about reading my book. Instead I closed my eyes and listened to my children and the lapping of the water. And I slept.
Later I played table tennis with my two oldest girls and we laughed at how bad we were as we spent more energy looking for the ball than hitting it over the net.
We hired a speed boat, pulled the girls along behind on the tube, and watched as they squealed in delight, riding the wake, bouncing. Dipped and bucked. And begged for more.
It’s dusk now, and Daddy and baby girl have just headed back down to the dock. 8 year olds (and 46 year olds) are still excited about the thought of night fishing.
I am going to curl up somewhere with my book and relax.
I love my holiday.