blasphemy

I've been having a horrible time lately. May I just come clean now and say that I hate summer? I know, blasphemous. I also don't understand the appeal of reality tv shows or Guitar Hero. There, I've said it.

Summer, right. I have an invisible tether that anchors me to this house. I thought it was restricting when they were young, but I now realize that I was wrong. I feel more restricted now. They're too old for the wading pool and yet there are no deeper pools nearby. They're getting pickier about what summer camps - if any - that they attend.

And I don't believe in scheduling their summers completely. As necessity is the mother of invention, so too I believe boredom is the mother of creativity. Except that as a mother I have headaches from grinding my teeth every time I hear the B word.

So I do realize that summers are not my time off. That starts in September for me. (Just how much can I skip and cheer on my return home from dropping off their sun-kissed fresh scrubbed eager little faces at school before it looks bad...?)

But I've been having a more difficult time this year. I feel very particularly this summer that there's nothing to look forward to. Same drudgery... end of summer, school starts and then pretty soon I'm wading through Hallowe'en candy. Then before you know it it's another holiday season bearing down on us.

Because the last three years or so I've had Something Else in the back of my mind. And starting in January of this year it jumped into the forefront (forebrain?) and I started actively planning the five week family trip that we took this past May & June. I spent a lot of time planning that trip. And even though I knew I would miss the expectation and then execution of said trip, it hasn't seemed to let me handle this depression any better.

I started hatching the idea of travelling after watching Long Way Round. I'm an anxious traveller; the thought of not knowing where I'll be every night makes me act very oddly. I'm not fun to be around, and my husband has proof.

But watching Ewan and Charley travel by motorcycle east around the world, and then reading the accompanying book made me think that I'd love to attempt an adventure. A travel adventure. With the kids.

My Dad emigrated here in 1952 from England, so for some reason I decided that we should travel the United Kingdom. But then well you're so close to Paris... and Joe lived in Paris with his family when he was his son's age, so wouldn't that be a great place to visit too? The trip ended up being a week in Paris, then four weeks in Great Britain. Had to leave Ireland off the itinerary; that'll be another trip.

And I had a great time. We all did. I prepared myself for an adventure, and had one. I didn't have any anxiety, which completely surprised me. I was comfortable the entire time, and we didn't have all the places booked ahead of time. I had... like..., a runner's high (or what I imagine that must be having never liked running) from the trip.

But now.

Now the endorphins or adrenaline or dopamine or whatever have worn off. I had this trip in my head for so long... now what do I do?

I suppose it doesn't help having to look at all the photos and video I shot while travelling. That's my summer project; to organize all that. It's difficult to move on when I'm forced to reminisce so much.

I place the blame squarely on your collective shoulders Ewan, Charley et al. You've created a monster!