The children think we’re insane,” I said to The Husband on the morning of our departure from the little blue cabin on the hill overlooking Gaspe Bay in Quebec.
It was true all the time, but was particularly notable to the children on vacation, when we stuffed ourselves into our Subaru for hours on end, and into small hotel rooms or mini houses where we lit along the way.
This one had been a doozy. I’d warned everyone early on to be careful, as I was expecting the menses. But did they listen? No. They went on the way they do, laughing about “d—-” and “b—-” and television shows and other things I can’t relate to. And they didn’t join me for my thrilling walk in the rain to the Musee de Beaux-Arts in Quebec City to see the woman impressionist, Berthe Morisot, finally get her due.
I don’t know if it was my PMS or being ditched while supporting a fellow woman, or The Husband’s rage and panic about getting off on the wrong stop on the boat to catch the seaplane (it was too far to go without a car, which we’d left in another town).
It’s hard to know what finally drives one mad, and I will not even try to justify what happened next. I’m just saying I finally lost it. I went off.
The poor children. As their father hurried off to fetch the car by many ferries, they had to receive my wrath, my rant about the realities of married life, and its downsides. They were old enough now, I said, to see what was really going on, how I was abused, and misused.
They stood it, or sat it, in the little pergola-type-thing next to where our boat had landed (boringly, except for that brief whale-sighting and the glimpses of seals on rocks in the distance) on the Sanguenay Fjord. I didn’t look closely enough to see the shape of the structure, as The Husband would have, and didn’t know the proper name. But we sat there, and I defended myself against their father. Like a psycho.
I lay on the beach afterward, in the sun, spent by the emotion. I would surely get my period soon, and since we were headed into the relatively remote Forillon National Park, I should look for sanitary products. This is what I thought about.
The seaplane, a dream of mine, didn’t come to pass because of the wind, making the whole rushed panic moot, as happens. It was probably better in my state. It wouldn’t have gone well.
I didn’t join the family for dinner, choosing instead to moon about as I wandered along the St. Lawrence River below our old family-style Auberge. “You’ll have more fun without me,” I explained, which, in my sorry state, was probably true.
It angered me, how I couldn’t explain myself. The Husband felt the same way, I knew. I always say how lucky we are to be readers of great literature, how it has saved us many times, cause we at least know we’re not the first folks to go through this ridiculous drama dramatically.
You can’t escape them, the crappy moments, not even on vacation, at least we can’t. (Perfect pics for Facebook notwithstanding.)
The kids should know: It’s not all puppies and rainbows, though there should be as many of those as possible. It’s not all beautiful layered mountain vistas reflected in glistening clear waters though, again, as many as possible.
Women were b—— sometimes, and men total a——-. And vice-verse, however those two monikers differ. Let us at least call it what it
is, and move on.
And so, we moved on. The sun rose on another beautiful day in Quebec, my period came, and all was bright and beautiful again.
Until the next blow-up. And then, well, then we began again.
Indeed, we are insane. The poor neighbors of our little chalet on the hill hopefully didn’t speak enough English to understand our screaming fights, but if they did, so be it. We’re loud, passionate Americans, New Yorkers at that. Our license plate should have served as a warning.
They don’t get too many of us up here in Gaspe, “mostly French, so many French” the guard at the park lamented. Hopefully our loud boisterous presence won’t prompt a ban of New Yorkers, should they decide to visit this beautiful place for some poutine in paradise.
And, hopefully, our children, when they get to choose for themselves, will still choose to join their psycho parents on mad-cap adventures to wild lands.
Fingers crossed.
