Several times a year, Matt and I have The Talk. This particular Talk centers around vacation. What do we do? Do we finally put on our Big Boy and Big Girl Pants and book our own little family vacation? Do we start saving for the magic of Disney World? Do we pawn our kids off on any and all takers and peace outta here, just the two of us?
Or. Do we go back to the river?
It’s always the river.
Although. Lemme be REALLY REALLY CLEAR. We are game if you would like us to pawn our kids off on you. We. are. so. game.
Anyway, it’s pretty much the same song and dance every time we go to the mystical, magical (more magical than Disney? PERHAPS.) world of Warsaw, Virginia. I’ve blogged about it many times before.
We swim. (Though, this requires some audacity in March.)
(Thankfully, audacity is not in short supply around here.)
We spend heaps of time in (or on) the golf cart.
We learn to ditch the training wheels.
“Can’t stop, won’t stop,” is Elizabeth’s latest catchphrase. Girl can RIDE.
And we (I) completely geek out over cattle.
Y’all, I don’t know what it is with me and farm animals. I’m like a four year old at a petting zoo, all giddy with excitement. A few years ago, I was at a friend’s party when her uncle rolled (trotted?) up on a horse. (This is just how they do, people. Go with it.) Well, all the kids quickly started begging for pony rides. And as I saw one after another hoisted up on that horse, I started casting sheepish glances at my friends. I was jealous.
“Oh,” they laughed. “Do YOU wanna ride, Catherine?” they asked.
HECK YES I wanted to ride! So I did. Never mind the fact that all eyes were on the 30-something-year-old trotting around the backyard on their uncle’s horse.
And still, no shame. I don’t need jewelry. Someone just go ahead and buy this girl a farm. (I’m looking at you, Matt.)
Actually, to give the guy some credit, Matt and I were able to get away for a date night while we were there. After a quick stop by the local burger joint (VEGGIE burger for me, thankyouverymuch. Because, remember, COWS.), my doting husband pulled us right up to Tractor Supply. To look at the baby chicks! And baby ducks! On our date night. My friends, I married a good man.
But before we stopped by tractor supply, I asked Matt to pull down a side road. I wanted him to see with his own eyes the object of some of my greatest fears growing up. Boarding School. You see, some kids are threatened with The Wooden Spoon. Or The Belt. Or whatever punishment seems fit for the crime.
Me? My darling parents would threaten me and my sister with “The Bad Girls School”, otherwise known the all-girls boarding school not-too-far-but-far-enough down the road from Richmond. (Dearest past, present, or future boarding school student, I’m sure you are not a bad girl. I’m sure you are a very VERY good girl. SO GOOD. Please don’t take offense at my parents’ [very effective] choice of threats.)
Anyway. I’m not even sure why this even needed to be discussed because all of my memories as a teenager involve me quietly, compliantly strumming a harp, halo on head, Precious Moments Bible in hand.
Whatever. We drove around. I showed Matt the amazingly gorgeous campus of this school. Right on the river. Right across the river from my parents’ house. Right in one of my favorite places of all time. And as we drove, we both nodded in agreement.
“Dude. Shoulda gone to the Bad Girls School.”
I’m telling you. We really,really love the rivah.