So, we’re back.

And, boy, did we need the break. There’s only so much deaf/Gally politics/schmoozing, DC smog and hubbub, suburb-mania that a gal can take in one bite.

So every once in a while it’s good to get away from paying your bills, from grocery shopping, from worrying, from deadlines.

Woodstock is one of my favorite places on Earth.

It’s a funky oasis in the middle of a really hick region of upstate New York (and when I say hick, I mean hick, as in missing teeth, shirtless men with mullets riding in the back of pickups, and people all up in your business like leeches).

I love Tinker Street, its world-class restaurants, its funky ambiance, its arts community, the way alternative medicine and ways of thinking are just as welcome as the white-cracker ones. I especially like that there ain’t no Mickey D’s anywhere or — except for the lone CVS that the locals fiercely battled — a single franchise.

I love the fresh air and the apparent lack of technology (pager? What pager?). I love how Leah’s bounciness multiplies as she ricochets happily between her relatives. I love watching my husband’s tenseness melt away as he just walks around in the sun.

I even manage to have a bit of nature-inspired fun myself, riding around in my father-in-law’s gator, feeding his chickens, playing soccer with Leah in my mother-in-law’s backyard.

But then it happens. Oh, yes, it happens. And it’s inevitable — it happens every time. CK’s neck muscles start bunching up again every time he’s reminded just why parents can be so annoying. My back hurts from sleeping on air mattress/futon/old bed and from being kicked constantly by Leah after she crawls in with us in the middle of the night.

We get tired of repeating ourselves fourfold every time a relative doesn’t understand us.

My eyes well up with tears as I see my own daughter being ignored by her uncle and his friends during his graduation bbq — not that he or any of the other in-laws realized they were doing it. I suppose it’s just easier to chat with the other little kids than it is to stop and sign to Leah.

I cringe as my mother-in-law (who is, by far, the most proficient hearing signer in our family) teaches Leah English sign after English sign. Secretly I take her aside and teach her my versions — but it’s too late.

The movies aren’t captioned. Pagers don’t work and I can’t check my blogs. The nearest signing person is miles away. Our lives are not our own as we meet relative after relative who all ask the same questions for the umpteenth time “How are you? Do you like school? Do you like work? How do you sign you’re welcome?” and then spend the next two hours in awkward silence as they try to make conversation with the other hearies while simultaneously grinning politely at us. In-laws give us lecture after lecture and way too much unsolicited advice.

Those who are more sensitive overcompensate — “I’m so sorry, I tried to explain to them, but you know, they just don’t understand.”

I give it two days, and then, even though I love Woodstock, I absolutely cannot wait to get back to DC.

I hate DC, it’s dirtiness, it’s ugliness, corruptness, ridiculous real estate market, and would rather envision us living somewhere else. I hate trying to enjoy life when I’m expected to contribute to the so-called prestigious reputation of deaf people. I hate the daily grind, waking up before the sun and doing things no one wants to do - laundry and responding to that mortgage e-mail. I hate the weather - too humid in the summer, too slushy in the winter. I hate that I think I’m here only because I can’t think of where else to go.

But leave DC, and suddenly it’s easy to see why we’re here.