This morning my nephew, Levi, threw up at the breakfast table, just moments before I made my morning debut in the dining room. His good-natured vomit session, one in which he puked twice but never whined loudly enough to wake us in the next room, seems characteristic of the wee lad. Nothing much phases him--not even early morning puking.
Levi's joyful acceptance of all things contrasts sharply to attitudes around us here sometimes as we go through what used to be our daily life here in Vermont--Brattleboro Co-op visits, downtown rambles, bike rides, swim hole adventures, cooking, and runs up and down country roads. If it weren't for the fact that there are so few jobs to be had here, and so many taxes to pay, we would move back in a heartbeat. If only.
Yesterday we terminated an epic bike ride at a swim hole, right where the tinier Rock River's flow joins with the warmer waters of the West River. It is a river that Tony and I, in our childless days, used to strip down and visit often during the late spring and summer months, and one that now seems much more popular with families than it once was. We used to be hard-pressed to see children there but now they are everywhere, and they are ALL WEARING SWIMSUITS! AS ARE THEIR PARENTS! AGH!
Apparently further up the shaded, chilly Rock River there are holes that are still naked friendly, but the spot we happened to choose yesterday was peopled with a group of loud, swimsuit-clad tweens who were less than impressed with our failure to bring along swim togs. Levi, with his sleek, nude, two-year-old physique, elicited no comment at all--just embarrassed, averted glances, as did Tehva. Silas, who is the very essence of modesty, brings his swimsuit along at all times, just in case, so he was set. And Tian, who has decided that, because she is nearly eleven, she must be close enough to physical development to be construed physically developed, also manages to bring her swimsuit and have it present at all times. Those of us over the age of ten, however, do not travel well-prepared and so we were dropping various items of clothing.
And that elicited the trauma-drama from the group of tweens already in the water.
"Ewww, Lady! Ewwww....I can see her bra! Ewwww! Ew, Lady! Oh, and That Guy! He is swimming in his underwear. Ew! And that Lady, Ew!" Out of respect for their potential trauma, I stripped no further than the skivvies. After all, every child blanched, balked, and squirmed uncomfortably when I offered to take it all off.
Either I am old and flabby or that was a group of children who need to work on their respectful voices, even when they are around old and flabby adults at what was once a naked swim hole. As I am old and flabby I was quick to comfort myself by recognizing the hypocritical nature of their comments: their mothers were robed in nothing more than skimpy black bikinis and the girls in said party were wearing bathing suits that barely stretched over their baby fat.
Yes, that did make me feel a little bit better as I paddled around the cool, clear waters in my bra and skivvies, feeling the sweat melt away and wash downstream.
