HAPPY
NRPO. My husband hands me these letters over lunch. We are at a table with our three children waiting for what must be the 6th pizza of our vacation. We have exhausted our other options: drawing, playing cards, and I Spy, and have now resorted to BananaGrams to get through meals in restaurants with minimal disruption to our fellow diners. My youngest uses the Scrabble-sized letters to make roads and towers, while the other two wait for their dad to give them a pile of letters and a clue, so they can build a word. Apparently he thinks I am also in the mood for games.
The morning was spent riding horses. This was the girls’ dearest wish, and proved to be the one somewhat adventurous local activity that even a two-year-old could abide. All five of us arrived at the barn excited, energetic, and well-fed. One couldn’t help but believe it would be a great time from start to finish. Later I would ask myself questions like, “Do all girls cry this much? Did I when I was their age?”
The middlest was first. She mounted the horse and immediately began to cry from visible fear, begging to get down. Lucky for me, already stuck on a horse, our sweet and patient guide soothed her and promised that she could ride directly behind him. Next my oldest’s allergies kicked in, and her eyes swelled up so much she could barely see. She wailed (and those of you who know her know, this child can wail) that she was missing her entire vacation, and that this was the worst day of her entire life. Again we were saved by our gracious, and by now somewhat nervous, hosts; the horse was calm and experienced and she could let go of the reigns and ride with her eyes closed. She pretended that she was Helen Keller, but with hearing, and tried to imagine what she might see if she could open her eyes. She just barely got to calm and my youngest began to wimper. She was tired and bored and simply ready to get down. I sang every song I could think of. Twice. Eventually, we made it back to the barn. I was exhausted.
And grumpy. You’ve all been there. The ‘here-we-are-on our-vacation-and-all-I-want-to-do-is-relax-and-have-fun-so-why-are-you-all-whining-all-the-time!’ shuffle. But then my oldest’s eyes opened and she felt better, and my youngest did a little dance when she got off her horse. On the way back to the hotel we got to see a huge sloth in a tree. My husband, ever my comic relief, reminded me that while he had to ride a horse named Pajarito (little bird), I got to spend two hours riding Superman.
The question I keep asking myself about our vacation is, was I happy? Or, maybe more specifically, what is happy? I used to believe that happiness was a goal, a state of eternal bliss. Perhaps now I see it as more nuanced. On horseback, I appreciated the animal, the stunning scenery, the sun, the occasional squeal of delight from the girl that wasn’t crying. It was moments, really. I always believed that someday the moments would run together in a continuous stream, unbroken. Or that they should. It has only recently occurred to me that I could enjoy an event without being happy during each moment.
After several attempts at things like NORP and PRON, when I am just about to give my husband my exasperated look, I get it. PORN. My laughter bubbles up from some nearly forgotten place and I am for one second happy again. Until my oldest asks what my word is.