Two partial weekends with the Sweigards. Two partial weekends of lake fun. Lake McClure was the scene this time around. A friend's houseboat loaned out for a free couple of days. After dinner and trout fishing, everyone except John decided to sleep outside, with its cool breezes and lower temperatures. (The living room was a bit of a sauna.) Four little pallets set out on the upper deck beneath the wide open sky allowed me, Dixie, Allison, and Isaac an unobstructed view of shooting stars, the Big and Little Dippers, and the gauzy stretch of space highway known as the Milky Way. Without the competition of city lights, the clarity and breadth of vision was breathtaking. Such beauty made it quite difficult to nod off. But, I enjoyed the light banter with my niece leading up to our eventual passing out.
Rarely do I float about on any body of water, be it a charming backyard oasis or a sparkling sprawl surrounded by swelling foothills, as a form of leisure activity. Today was the exception. I've got the perfect outline of a bikini -- sun-art in shades of red with white contrast, if you get my drift -- on my body to prove it! My nephew and niece entertained with spectacular leaps and dives from the second story of the houseboat. Once, and only once, I made the brave walk to the edge, trembled as I gazed into the water, and leaped off the edge. UGH. Me and heights, especially any type of departure requiring my body to remain suspended in air before gathering momentum for parts below, don't mix too well.(I started this entry last night around 11PM; I jerked awake, laptop IN my lap in its OWN sleep mode, around midnight. Decided to postpone further efforts until next day.)
On the off chance that readers out there feel I'm enjoying my time away from my core family far too much, please note that while I'm thrilled and blessed to be among my siblings and other family, and while the natural beauty of California has inspired me, my heart anticipates the reunion with my children and husband, not to mention my home and friends and church and the great green treed landscape that is Middle Tennessee.
When John and Dixie interact with their kids, I bite my tongue as responses and instructions natural to a mother try to maneuver their was past my lips and into the situation. This isn't my family. These aren't my kids. I don't believe they need my assistance or verbal donation to the cause. It's just that internal switch that was flipped back in October of 1989 when my firstborn arrived on the scene doesn't simply move back to the OFF position when I am away from my own kids. I want to hear my own brood snap at me, retort over a request, grump from the recesses of their morning sleep stupor, so mama can alternately calm, soothe, hug, ignore, boss, or discipline. And, yes, snap back once in awhile her ownself! 
When Emma and Allie pull their long hair behind their heads into messy buns or atop their heads into skyscraping masses, my mind's eye sees Sarah and her impossibly tall hair piles that only add to her regal attitude and Ashley with her wavy tresses held from her face with a serious collection of brown bobby pins. When Isaac peppers his mother with requests regarding playtime and playmates, and he annoys his high-spirited sisters with an endless stream of harmless jokes, I'm reminded of my own active son, Zachary, and his often impossible humor, endless energy, and boundless capacity for his own question assault on HIS mother. When John rests his considerable length of leg on the more diminuitive form of his wife while relaxing on the comfy family couch which presently doubles as my bed, I yearn to snuggle in close to my husband, his arm around me, and fall into the best of sleeps, secure in the familiar comfort of twenty one years. This morning, while rooting around in the fridge for a familiar topping to adorn my toasted Orowheat multi-grain sandwich thin, I found myself missing the contents of my own refrigerator, with its all-fruit fig spread, raspberry jam from the bakery, almond butter from Trader Joe's, and my special lite margarine without hydrogenated fats. I'm already contemplating what I can cook and eat with my family in my first week back. I hear I missed out on a great spaghetti and meatballs meals courtesy of my mother-in-law! 
So, there you have it. My people. My food. MY life. I like where I hang my hat. My hat(s) like(s) it, too. Though my hat has adapted to the spacious sprawl of the Sweigard ranch-style address, an austere dorm originally conceived for married nurses, grandma's familiar abode on Warwick Lane, a maze of a cabin nestled in the foothills, and a two-story houseboat situated on a spread-out lazy lake, it's quite eager to reclaim its hook in the utility hall just outside the guest bathroom and laundry room in my family's home. 
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