Folks, I have survived yet another family reunion. The most recent was my husband Doo’s side, a whopping 34 bodies, ages 9 to 77, crammed into a 100-year-old lake house for 48 hours. Impressive numbers, right? And even more impressive is that everyone, including myself, emerged relatively unscathed.
Usually, I dread this weekend. Not because I don’t like my in-laws. In fact, everyone gets along famously, and I count many of them among my closest friends. But I know I won’t get any sleep, and the thought of the impending insomnia generally has me plotting ways to arrive late or depart early. Doo and his four brothers tend to burn the midnight oil — the volume and energy of their conversations escalating as the evening wears on, and the liquor supply dwindles. Adding to that cacophony, “the littles,” as we call the youngest six kids, seem compelled to sprint anytime they are moving between the kitchen and front porch, a faux-hardwood route that runs directly beneath our room.
It’s basically a given that at some point I will make an appearance to old-school-scold the revelers, regardless of age and relationship. And though miraculously this was not the case on Friday – I actually got enough Z’s – Saturday night proved true to form. Uproarious laughter and periodic fast footfalls had me in curmudgeon mode at 1:15 and 2:15 a.m. and left me groggy and unrested on Sunday. And faithful readers will know I am not a pleasant person if I don’t get my precious sleep. So not pleasant.
Nevertheless, we all survived. And with those kinds of numbers, that’s pretty impressive.
Peace out.
