After Christmas and birthdays, the day we are invited to Tim’s lake house is one of the most anticipated day of the year. (Tim is one of my professors/mentors from grad school.) The night before we pray for good weather (we’ve almost been rained out twice) and the morning before we leave everyone is extremely compliant in following orders.
Our efforts are always worth it. We spend the day paddling around the lake in various conveyances, talking with Tim, hanging out in the backyard, eating food I didn’t make, and generally feeling . . . like we’re on vacation.
To describe the day as “perfect” would not be too much of a stretch. This may sound a little strange, but Tim is kind of the closest thing we have to “family” close by—someone who is a little wiser and more established, who has been in our lives since we moved to New York and has made the effort to keep in contact. Even if it is only for a day, it feels nice to be claimed.
The only downside: we always come home trying to figure out how we can make the lake house situation happen for us. It’s good to have goals.
Oh. And the spiders. There were spiders. Elsa was afraid. Oliver didn’t love them either. And Micah and I were a tad embarrassed at the level of sterile city-ness our children were exhibiting.