I’m not sure I’m mentally up to a coherent blog, so I thought I’d treat you to a potpourri of musings from the trip. Snapshots, if you will.
Wesley did get married. Her husband is not named Jesse after all, but Dustin. He seems like a very nice guy. Cried like a baby when his dad stood up to toast them, and you’ve gotta love that. Wesley was easily the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen, and everything was just gorgeous. Classy.
During the reception we discovered a dancer in the family. The music started, and Max just couldn’t help himself. He dragged me out on the dance floor, and whew! He gyrated, stomped, spun, jumped, laughed, and wiggled. I’ve never seen him dance like that. Heck, I’ve never seen anyone dance like that! He danced for hours, it seemed. Moves welled up from within him, and at one point he shimmied over to me and announced with glee, “I am so GOOD!” And he was.
When we left the wedding, we drove over the Golden Gate Bridge and through San Francisco. This was about 7 p.m., and the fog was pouring over the hills. Tre looked out the van window and worried it might be a forest fire. It did look like the smoke that lay over all of Colorado last summer during the forest fires. But I assured him that it was just fog, and he was transfixed. It quickly enveloped us, and he gazed out at it, murmuring dreamily, “It’s like a cloud. All those droplets, and they’re condensing on the van to make raindrops.” I tried to point out that we were on the Golden Gate Bridge, which is a big deal, but he just wanted to get out and feel the cloud. I guess no one ever said my kids would have passions that make sense to me. At this point I’m deeply regretful that I didn’t find a place to pull over, so he could feel the fog. I was scared of all the San Francisco traffic I couldn’t see.
Raphael would NOT sleep in the pack-n-play I had so carefully provided for him. He hated it, and screamed as soon as he was placed in it until I rescued him. Then he would hiccup and sigh those shuddery sighs of a child who has been very upset. I’m not a perfect mother (see above), but I couldn’t do that to him again. So he slept with me. Watching a child fall asleep is like watching a well-filmed nature documentary. A wild creature in its natural habitat. Raphael would lay there, looking around and humming little noises to himself. Then he would start to drift off, so he’d raise his arms over his head and clap, trying to fight off sleep. Eventually, his arms would drop, and his eyes would close, then pop open, then close…then pop open. He’d shake his head, and rub his nose with a fat little fist, but it was no use. The eyes would drift closed again, and he’d be gone. Until far too early an hour in the morning, when he’d spring up, unbelievably happy.
We went to the beach one day, and the boys had a wonderful time. Tre and Max got out in the waves with their Appa and boogie boards, and came back all dripping and shivering. I kept thinking they’d want to leave. Surely. Soon. But no, they wanted to go back as soon as they warmed up a little. And Dad kept taking them back into that cold water. God bless ‘em all, because I sure don’t get it. At one point Max was sitting on the sand, wrapped up in a towel. He was gazing out at the waves. He looked so contemplative that I wondered what he was thinking. I sat next to him and put one arm around him. We looked out at the timeless motion of the water and I asked, “So, what do you think of the ocean, honey?”
“Great,” he replied, “it’s good for spitting in.”
Well, despite the many joys of California, spitting and otherwise, it’s great to be home. I’m exhausted.