Independence Day

I love the 4th of July.  I love the historicity, the patriotism, and (for our family) the tradition.  My grandmother has this cute little cottage on a (mostly) private beach.  Some of my favorite childhood memories are of the beach house.  Of them all, my 4th of July memories are the best. 

As an adult, I cling to my 4th of July at the beach house.  I often joke that I cram an entire summer into one day: swimming in the ocean, quahogging (clam digging for my non-Rhode Island readers!), eating freshly-cooked clam chowder, clam cakes, and steamers, playing cribbage with my uncle, and watching fireworks over the water. 

If I'm in Rhode Island for the summer, I spend the 4th at the beach house.  The one exception was the first trip to Maine I made with my ex and his parents eight years ago.  Giving up my special summer day for him was a pretty good indicator of how I felt about him then! 

This year was different. 

The kids and I were exhausted from our fun Maine vacation, having arrived home just last night.  There was the typical squabbling as we simultaneously unpacked from one vacation and packed up for a day at the beach.  By the time we got in the car, I had a headache and a pout.  Actually, I can't remember the last time I started off to the beach house without a headache and a pout! 

The headache lingered off and on all day, but the pout surely did not.  The kids and I spent hours at the beach with their aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents.  I thought keeping track of them both on my own would be nerve-wracking, but surprisingly it wasn't.  I was half-way through the day when I actually realized how relaxed I felt. 

Some of it could be the fact that the kids are older and a little more independent.  I let them play with much less interference than usual.  In the water, I definitely had eyes on them at all times, but I also gave them some space to do their own thing.  They had a blast. 

I rather suspect the larger part of it was that there was nobody to please but myself.  That isn't quite true, of course: I did go to the beach a second time because the kids wanted to despite my headache and fatigue.  But there was no wondering if someone else was happy, fearing he wasn't, knowing he wasn't.  I didn't feel guilty staying a little later: everyone in my little nuclear family wanted to stay longer. 

This is not to say I was the life of the party.  I haven't been that in a very long time.  But I don't think I was a downer, either.  I didn't feel down.  It was, I think, one of the first things I've gone to since the divorce began that didn't have a "He should be here" undertone to it.  It was okay that he wasn't.  More than okay. 

It isn't always okay.  Yesterday when I saw him playing with my kids and heard my son repeatedly saying, "I missed Daddy," and smiling as he ran to hug him, I could not keep back the tears.  I wept for what my kids are suffering. 
I am learning that grief and healing are not linear.  They are more like graphs of polynomial functions: marked by irregular dips and rises.  Yesterday was a dip.  Today was a rise. 

Whatever the reason, it was good to have a time of freedom from grief, from guilt, from sadness.  Happy Independence Day!