Holidays are over. The fun has ended right here, right now, and it’s back to work.
And, it does no good, none what so ever, to say my holidays were too short, over before I knew it, seeming shorter than a long coffee break, lunch hour or long day at the office.
And right now as I stare at a blank computer screen, I feel somewhat like a kid back in school being handed a writing assignment about what they did on their holidays. And I feel like someone whom someone else accidentally dressed in this old wrinkly adult skin outfit.
I guess holidays are meant to be a fun little detour on the working person’s life’s journey, a bend in the road, arrived at before the destination of retirement is finally reached.
For me, the days when my time sheet says nothing about when I clocked in or out, but simply was stamped ‘holidays’ were filled with delicious moments, sort of like the cream filling in the middle of those really, really good donuts at Tim Horton’s.
One such delicious moment was when Taren Harold Fisher took his very first breath in this world and I was there, present, in the room, watching it all happen.
I was supposed to be a birthing coach, helping the mom with her breathing, bringing cold, wet washcloths at the moment when needed, spouting words of encouragement and overall making the delivery as easy as possible.
I stumbled about trying to do all of the above, but felt like I mostly just got in the way, which I probably did. But, in the final countdown, the mom took things into her own capable hands, and delivered a perfect child into this less than perfect world, and, in so doing, gave us all a little taste of what a miracle really feels like.
“It’s a boy,” someone said.
And, I immediately felt all puffed up and proud and humble and excitedly happy and ready to hand out cigars, even though they I don’t think they even do that anymore.
And now mother and child are reportedly doing well in their own little world and I am back in mine.
And it’s all good, although I’m still smiling when I think about the words the mom said to me just before I left. “How comes he sleeps so much?” she asked.
“Enjoy it,” I said, “it won’t last.” And apparently, I was right.
Despite not going anywhere in particular, and accomplishing nothing more than figuring out how to set up volleyball net in the back yard, so it wouldn’t fall over, I did manage to squeeze a few more delicious cream filled moments into a two-week holiday.
I went to the waterslides, and abandoned my adult inhibitions long enough to spiral down one of the slides, narrowly avoiding running into some kid, who went down about two seconds before me.
My grandchildren, who are waterslide veterans, were very proud of me, but not quite as much as I was proud of me.
The waterslide day was a magical day, complete with a seemingly painted lake in the background, and an azure blue sky overhead, embroidered ever so delicately with lazy white clouds.
I leaned back on my towel, thinking this is how it feels to have nothing to do, and all afternoon to do it in.
And I was happy!
My moment of complete absolute peace proved to be short lived, however.
“Grandma, I want to go home,” the five-year-old said, her blue eyes looking all sad and homesick.
“What?” I replied. “We just got here.”
I bribed her with forbidden treats like cheezies and a chocolate bar and threw in a million hugs, but she wanted none of it. What she wanted was her mom, because apparently, even cheezies, chocolate bars and hugs from grandma cannot replace that one and only person.
I so get that.
But, even so, sometimes grandmas can, in their own way, be useful and, as it turns out, very important.
“Watch me, grandma,” the nine-year-old said. “Watch me, now.”
And so I did. And as I watched him take on the very scariest waterslide of all, with his little boy grin intact, I was once again reminded that it’s the moments that make it all worthwhile.
Holidays and every day!