I Want to Hold Your Hand

One might think living in one of America’s most beautiful places (a recent designation, thank you very much) and top tourist destination–especially in the summer–is a non-stop vacation.  Well, it might be, if you were staying at the Hotel Viking on Bellevue Avenue, visiting the spa every afternoon, and dining at Castle Hill in the evenings. 

When you live here, just as anywhere else (especially with three young children, two dogs, and a cat), there is laundry to be done, dog poop to scoop, floors to sweep. To feel as though you’re on vacation, you actually have to go on vacation–drive away from the beauty that is Newport, go someplace else. 

Which is what we did last week. 

And sometimes leaving behind the daily grind is the only way to restore a person’s powers of observation, powers that are hampered if not occasionally completely obscured by constant wiping, vacuuming, and, to be honest, refereeing.  Seemingly endless summer days, while admittedly good for the soul, can have a decidedly different effect on three boys ages six and under who are with each other from the moment they get up and until they finally fall into bed–so much so that this at times beleaguered and befuddled mother often wondered if there was any fraternal affection left. 

And then we went on vacation.  And I was able to see in an instant what I hadn’t been able to see in eight weeks.  And everything became clear.


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