Since Husband is more than a little convinced that if I blog about going away for a few days, we will return to a house stripped for parts like an old Chevy, I wouldn’t normally tell you this. But, because he’s not joining us and would therefore greet you with at the door with a Louisville Slugger, I’ll let you in on that fact that I’m packing up the kids and the dog today and heading north to my beautiful hometown of Dorset, Vermont for a few days.
And, I can’t wait. The boys (lazy yellow labrador included) and I are heading up for a few days filled with tromping through backyard fields, walking the golf course with the dogs, hiking child-sized trails and enjoying the company of beloved Marnie, Jeff and (the anti-lazy yellow Labrador) Daschiel.
Like in Marblehead, they’ve had a boatload of rain over the last month or so. Which means the Green Mountains will be Ireland-green. The flowers will be up, the trees blooming and, while I’ll miss the whiff of ocean in my own town, I’ll smile as my children and I breathe deep the smell of fresh cut grass, fresh cut FRESH, fresh cut CLEAN. Ahhhhh. Do you know that smell? If you don’t, go find it.
Between us and Vermont, however, remains the chore of packing endless bags of sh*t needed to sustain two young boys, a dog and me for five days. While my Mom kindly stocked the fridge of essentials for us, I need to get off this computer and get moving on packing the clothes, shoes, favorite blankets, favorites lovies (Baaah and Bunny), diapers, wipes, Kandoo, kibble, games, DVD player, kid CDs, Zhu Zhus, car snacks, juice boxes and booster seats. Then I will stuff whatever I can into giant black garbage bags (classy, no?) before throwing them into the new car. Because the big, hairy dog will be with us (bye, bye new car smell) and I could knit a sweater with the hair he will shed through the trip.
Gross.
But, we will arrive. And breathe. And play. And love. And be loved.
I used to drive home from college in my Hyundai (seriously), without a darn care in the world, and play this song over and over on my 8-track cassette player. Of course, I know it’s about West Virginia and not Vermont but it still makes me think about going home.
So, here you go. Take me home, John.
Confessions of a Serial Swooper 