There was a thread of conversation on social media. A mom expressed disappointment about the lackluster response to a family vacation. She had gone to great lengths to create it. The response from other mothers with similar stories was profuse. Apparently such dashed expectations are common. Some women bemoaned teens who grumble over going to the same old cottage by the ocean. Same old pier. Others felt miffed because the effort and expense went unappreciated. One quoted her
son.
A church camp we went to for years had a tradition of everyone striking out on Wednesday afternoon. It seemed to diffuse the slump that often showed up mid week. I was grateful to have a margin for unexplained grumpiness.
The women who tried to close the gap between what they wanted for their kids and what happened felt stretched. Moms can pack favorite foods, and extra socks, but it is up to the kids to bring alacrity.
No one really had a magic cure for the whole dilemma. But this poem by a friend helps it seem less like failure than the ebb and flow of life.
The night settles, the wind rises.
At last the family shares something…
the darkness, the washing of waves
beyond their individual dreams.
The family has reached agreement
in the rhythm of breathing,
each carried off to sleep
in the brawny arms of exhaustion
that tosses them in delirium up and down
like jumping the waves.
Why must we wait for sleep?
Wouldn’t you guess a family
could be happy, get along
for one week in the year?
There’s laughter, of course, and fun
some of the time. But the griefs
as various as wet shells the waves drop.
The youngest will cry from sand or salt,
tears easily rinsed in a bin of clear water.
The middle children must win
Everything, must drip sand the highest,
dig deepest or tears flow
like oil on their hot cheeks.
And teenage tears
all unlooked for, as if
the beach were mined;
any word may trigger
blow-ups about how wretched it is
to be completely without friends,
and be made to slave all vacation.
Then there is us, probably the parent
to all other tears.
Your tears are dry, like mine,
or if they flow, it isn’t toward the beach,
but below the surface
Like a riptide
carrying anything like forgiveness out to sea.
