real ideal
Sunday, September 14th, 2008It was not ideal that two-year-old should need to use a toilet as we sat in the middle of Friday afternoon rushhour traffic on the southern motorway trying to escape ourselves from Auckland.
We took the nearest exit and found a suitably private spot for her. Then ignoring both the sign and the wife-pointing-out-what-the-sign-said, The Driver headed back onto the motorway. Northbound. Towards Auckland. Still rushhour. Even less ideal.
Back off the motorway again, and on again, this time in the right direction.
Crawling at barely 30km an hour, wife made a couple of jokes, but met with deadly serious response and so she retreated behind her knitting needles. Although speed increased, the trip still took over three hours. That’s a long time when adult conversation is restricted to route information and the age of the van. As darkness spread itself over the road, a tear trickled down wife’s cheek. She brushed it aside, determined to stop thinking about how boy and girl used to pack so much into the ten minute phone conversation they were allowed to have each day.
So began a bittersweet mournful weekend.
It was lovely to watch the children weaving strands of old friendships tighter.
It was exciting to peek into their adventure land, to climb a mountain, to observe a newly born lamb stagger to its feet for the first time, to zip around the quarry, to eat icecreams.
We were together. Yet we were alone.
They experienced without me.
Not one hug. Not one smile. Hardly even a word.
Of course, the almost uninterrupted adult conversation with friends was fantastic, but the children’s happiness to not-connect, tainted the newfound privilege.
Still, we caught up on journeys, we soaked up the sun, we puzzled over cryptic crosswords, we read out passages of books to each other, we watched a movie, we opened hearts, we threw round ideas.
That was the sweet bit.
All too soon, the days were up and we were back in the car.
Another long quiet journey ahead.
I immersed myself in my own thoughts. I wrote this post in my head (but now, a day later, it’s not coming out as well as it was written yesterday!)
I determined.
We are not going to travel around the world strangers to each other.
We will connect.
We will grow closer, stronger, tighter.
I will love them.
I will let them know they matter to me.
I will make sure they know I want to hear their thoughts, their hearts.
I realised.
It’s the little things that can make a difference.
As we rise from beds, I will grab eye contact, mouth a greeting, give a word of encouragement. To each one.
It’s actually very easy NOT to do this in a large family. By the time you’ve said your seventh “good morning”, it may be feeling unnecessary, but it’s not unnecessary as far as the eighth person is concerned. Or the ninth or tenth.
I will ask questions.
What did you see today that made you laugh/sigh/shudder/hope?
Did you come across a memorable sight/sound/smell? If so, what?
What did you think about/ponder over/wonder at/learn?
What examples of beauty/service/sacrifice/love did you see?
What inspired you? Gave you courage? Strengthened your faith? Caused you to question? Prompted uneasiness?
What would you like to remember about today in a hundred years’ time?
Not every question every day.
But at least one.
And in the evening, a farewell, a blessing, a prayer breathed over each and every one of them.
Sunday night saw us dining in candlelit style.
We were transported back to Ancient Rome and dined on roast 
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