We went to Maine this summer. It felt like a minor miracle that we were able to pull off this trip: the only normal, scheduled event that hasn’t been cancelled in our lives since the COVID-19 pandemic wiped our calendar clean and confined us to our home. I will be reminding my children about our Maine trip anytime they complain of boredom for the rest of the summer.
Gong Child: “I’m SO BORED!”
Me: “Remember how we went to Maine this summer?” (Unspoken, but implied: “You ungrateful wretch!”)
Oddly enough, one of the best parts about going to Maine was coming home.
“Ah!” we sighed in wonder as we drove across the Green Mountains and saw Vermont’s familiar fields stretching out before us.
“It’s so good to be home!” we exclaimed as we entered our house, unpacked our bags, and settled back into our own beds.
Our house, which had begun to feel like a prison in the weeks before the trip to Maine, reclaimed its cherished place in our collective hearts after a week’s absence. It was nice to feel that we wanted to be at home, not just that we had to be at home.
The warm glow of homecoming lasted approximately 24 hours. Then I went outside and looked at my garden.