I spent the past week with Dave’s family on vacation in New Hampshire.
We were in an over-sized house that had a home theater. We spent nights in the hot tub and played pool while sipping on margaritas. We spent the days exploring the town, rented a boat, and had a killer Bloody Mary in a tavern.
As Dave and I drove around in my Toyota Yaris, I was in constant awe of the scenic roads.
And I was in constant awe of how the parents lives revolved around their children.
There were ten kids, so I could argue the eight adults were outnumbered and had to submit to the flighty wills of the children. But that wasn’t the case.
They love their children.
As I write that, I know that statement should be obvious. No one should assume that children are unloved by their parents. But the problem is that some children aren’t shown that their parents love them.
In our case, that has been true.
With the relationship we have had- the disconnect, the neglect, the abuse-, I will always be jealous of those ten kids.
My ears still ring from their laughter and shouting.
I’m jealous those kids have a close-knit family. I’m jealous that their parents always have a set of eyes on their child. I’m jealous that for one of them: her worst day involved her getting her head stuck in a railing because she thought she could fly if she got through.
Honestly, I’m jealous of anyone that never had to question if they are loved by their parents.
Seeing that kind of love and that kind of magic-laden childhood will always have me in constant awe.
More so than any New Hampshire mountainside.