Sarah Nigbor

I feel bad for my daughter. It’s her spring break and we have nothing exciting planned. After all this medical business, a trip to the grocery store seems luxurious to me. I haven’t left the house much lately and I’m starting to go stir-crazy. I was a little too exuberant at Family Fresh when I found their sushi bowls. I fawned over a deal on honeydew melon like it was the seventh wonder of the world. I was rewarded with at least 10 tweenager eye rolls, followed by smiles she tried to hide. I even got a compliment:

“Mom, you look less like an alien today.”

During a bout with iritis, I have to put dilation drops in my affected eye. Something about making sure the iris isn’t sticky and scar tissue doesn’t form. However, it makes my pupil gigantic and I look like a lop-sided bug. My daughter is so good for my self-confidence (read in a sarcasm font). I guess it was meaningful that she consented to be out with me in public.

As she tagged along with me today to an interview and the sheriff’s office to do accident reports, she looked less than thrilled. I heard more sighs than actual words. When I suggested she take a photo of the Pierce County Jail sign and tell her friends she was trapped there, I was treated to a sigh, an eyeroll and an “I’ll tell them I’m bailing you out.” Ouch.

When my husband suggested we go visit his grandmother in eastern Wisconsin, I thought she was going to have a stroke. She said her idea of watching Shane relax in a recliner watching the Green Bay news while Nan brings him snacks isn’t a vacation to her. I’ll admit I agree, but I see the wisdom in saving money on a hotel. She refused to listen to reason when he said we could just use Nan’s house as a base and go exploring in the area. I was mystified when he said we should visit Oshkosh. What’s so exciting about Oshkosh? Isn’t that where they make overalls? I looked it up and it appears there are actually a number of things to do there – shopping, arts, trails, supper clubs, etc. I was sold but try telling that to a 12-year-old who has a skincare routine. Oshkosh is apparently not bougie enough to visit. When I was 12, I tried cutting my own hair, which looked like a sun-bleached tornado. I complained when I was forced to take a bath and loved going barefoot everywhere I could. We are very different people.

I shouldn’t have told her about the time Uncle Derek and I got a wild hair and decided to drive to North Carolina to see the ocean when we had four days off in a row. We drove straight to Wilmington, NC through the night, chugging coffee and taking turns driving. Our friend Troy came along but proved useless as a spare driver when his allergies acted up and he looked like a pollen-filled balloon with squinty, watery eyes. We forgave him.

I’ll never forget how it felt to see the ocean for the first time, especially after almost a full day of driving nonstop. I ran toward the white-colored sand and threw myself into the surf. What should have been a picture-perfect moment of joy turned into horror when the waves swept my glasses off my face. I’d been in the water less than 10 seconds and there was already a disaster. Luckily, my eagle-eyed friends found them sticking out of the sand and placed them back on my face before true panic set in. It was definitely not a Baywatch, beach-running moment.

Our way back to Wisconsin after our brief yet delightful stay at the beach, we ran into the worst thunderstorm I’ve ever seen in the West Virginia mountains. Sheets of rain poured from the angry, black sky as lightning lit up the black granite walls around us. I muttered many prayers as my white-knuckled hands gripped the steering wheel. We made it to a truck stop and pulled off the road until the storm subsided.

We ordered breakfast from a waitress with a thick Southern drawl. When she brought Derek’s breakfast skillet, she said in a voice as thick as molasses: “I stuck my finger in it for you to see if it was hot. It’s ok to eat.” I laughed until I cried as Derek looked forlornly at the giant finger-hole in his eggs. He still ate them, but it’s a saying we repeat to this day. And let’s not even talk about trying to find a public restroom open on a Sunday in Mt. Airy, NC. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Mt. Airy is my mother’s hero’s hometown: Andy Griffith. It was karma for me making fun of the show.

Ah, the memories. Perhaps Oshkosh will be just as exciting.