‘Tis a gift to be simple. It is. For the last ten years, vacations have been less a vacation and more of an adventure. Trips to Ireland, Europe, various states in the US, and Canada were exotic and activity filled. Sights were seen. Alcohol was drunk. The joy came not just from spending time together but from seeing new and exiting things. Experiences relied less upon people than upon place. This is not to say, of course, that going with someone other than Mr. Adventure would have been as fun. This is to say that our idea of a getaway was to go away and do new and exciting things.
This year, however, I sit here:

I’m in the right chair, typing. Mr. A is in the left chair reading. The sun has slowly descended below the horizon. The birds caw, the crickets chirp. The evening is one of solitude and a chorus of nature. And, incidentally, I am not a nature girl. I’m a city girl. In fact? Too many trees in one place kind of freak me out a bit. Don’t ask. Really. You don’t want to know. I fear the big tree versus people coup bound to happen someday. Go ahead and laugh. You’ll be sorry one day. Yup.
Instead of views of lights and streets, instead of meeting new people, I’m sitting here staring at this:


And, what might just be my dream vacation house someday

Life has changed. Sitting here, I’m drinking a glass of wine from a plastic cup. I am reminded of where I have been and where I am going. The plastic cup is the typical kegger cup from college. The wine? A $40 bottle of chardonnay. I am no longer drinking something cheap. However, I am drinking unpretentiously. I am no longer a child drinking in life as fast as possible to get drunk on it. I am an adult sipping from life and sipping from, yeah, a red plastic cup. Sipping slowly to savor the flavor of the wine and the life I’m living. Life today is different from life last year or a life imagined.
This vacation is one filled with wonderment. Not my own wonderment, but that of my son. Everything is new to him. He dips his toes in the water. He giggles. He figures out that he can thrust his feet into the water causing a splash and ploink sound. He laughs.

He watches metal tongs open and close and his full bellied laugh is that of his father. Whole. Hearty. Joyful. There is so much to see and do. He wants to take it all in. He won’t, of course, sleep. If he slept, well, the whole world might stop turning. Or, conversely, the whole world might explode into a a bright shining ball of circus fun that he would miss out on. Sleep, apparently, is for those suckers who long to remain in darkness.
Instead of filling the day with places to see, we are filling it with people to see. We watch our son – discovering with joy the world around him. We watch each other. We smile small private smiles of contentment and love at one another, when we think the other person doesn’t see. Watching each other parent and enjoy being a parent is a thrill in itself.
Activity abounds. Mr. Monkeyman has to keep moving, keep walking, keep talking.

A few years ago, Mr. A and I went to Ireland. In looking at the castles and in visiting Newgrange, we stared in awe at what people hundreds and thousands of years before us could create. In looking at our son, we stare in awe at what we created. This tiny life – with all of its moods and quirks – is both a part of each of us and its own little tiny self. We created this, but we did not build it. He builds himself day by day.
Parenting is difficult. In a good marriage, where the two people want to be the same type of parent and want to impart the same types of lessons, it can be an amazing thing. It can bring two people closer together in ways not previously understood. In a bad marriage, or in a marriage where the two people want different things for their child, it can bring out the worst in the relationship. Watching Mr. A with Mr. Monkeyman reinforces the bond we had before. Mr. Monkeyman helps to build us. He is an architect of life, of strength, and of the the psyche – particularly in his adamant refusal to sleep or do something quiet. He strengthens physically and mentally. It’s like the combination of Godzilla, Sudoko, and an abacus.
This vacation is not about doing. This vacation is not about visiting. This vacation is about the simple things in life. Trying to calm a screaming, overtired beastie. Trying to find things that make a baby smile. Waiting for those moments when the child looks at you with that full and complete love and adoration. Those are the simple things in life. Indeed, ’tis a gift to be simple. ‘Tis the greatest gift of all.





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