Last weekend, we drove (and drove, and drove) to Cape Breton, an area of Nova Scotia reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands, and went to B's family reunion.
(Passing small towns with names like Monastery. ‘Magine that. ‘I come from Monastery.’ Bet they’re fun as prom dates.)
70 people (give or take) all related to his mother, and five of whom I had met before. And I was that Mom, the one with the bad kids, the bored kids who wouldn't stop wandering around. In their defense, though, dinners that start at eight and run until eleven? Not so good for youngsters.
We had a cottage, a one bedroom with a pull-out sofa, and shared a wall (and a deck) with another family. We had a great view of the (mostly grey and foggy) shore and the pool.
Note to self: Never get snortingly giggly with your husband about the methane emissions that are rocking the other side of the cabin. Your neighbors (they of the explosive asses) will get tight-lipped whenever they see you. Whoops.
(But I'm pretty sure they belong to a distant branch of the family.)
We took a break from all that family togetherness and went to the Alexander Graham Bell museum, where C was thrilled by the hydroplanes and R was thrilled by the room!to!run! After forty-five minutes of saying NO!, I just...let her go. She cruised the pathways and gardens (even in the persistent drizzle) and afterwards was calmer and much less likely to become a whinging pincushion.
They both slept much of the way home. Poor things. It's hard to recuperate from a vacation.
And B's twitch should be going away soon.