We’re back from the lake.  Mama Syd and Papa Chris are gone.  The pile of laundry that awaits is so tall.  It has us all feeling a little like this:

So we know that things will happen at the lake and after 5 decades of being “Iron Creeked” we know that to prepare for.

  • Clothes will never be the same so just leave the really nice stuff and light colors home.
  • Shoes, when worn, fare even worse than clothes so be prepared.
  • Bugs will bite, bikes will crash, things happen.  Peroxide and Neosporin and bandaids are purchased in bulk and then are used daily.
  • Since trips to the Tootsie Roll Store are required, we need to pack lots of coins.

So we are mindful of was to be prepared while there.  And I have a general idea about what things will be like when we get home, too.

  • Adjusting to a “normal” schedule is a little like enduring jet lag and lasts about a week.
  • Grandparent detox is real and requires patience and alcohol. (The booze being for me, of course.)
  • The laundry might make me weep.
  • The kids relish the novelty of their Lego/dress-up clothes/books/trampoline such that they don’t notice everything that needs to be put away.
  • The car will require at least 3 trips to the car wash to remove the dust.  We will still find dust when the ice melts in the spring.

But this year, there’s a new thing to relearn now that we are home.  After using the plunger more times than I can count in the last few days I’ve realized we must retrain young minds on the necessity of flushing.  After all, the outhouse doesn’t require that.  And, it turns out, the girls will need to be reminded that they can go to the bathroom whenever they like and that it doesn’t have to be a torturous experience.  I keep finding little girls doing a certain dance and they are reluctant to admit that they do in fact need to use the facilities.  However, when I remind them that it’s a toilet, their eyes brighten and they scamper down the hall.

Even for toilets, absence makes the heart grow fonder.  Except in the case of plunger.  I’ll never be fond of that.