When our children were little, my husband and I, like most parents, wanted to expose them to a variety of experiences; some for educational purposes, like museums, and the library. Some for fun, such as amusement parks, fairs, and playgrounds. We also felt it was important to share our love of nature with them by going on frequent walks, hikes, picnics, camping, hunting, and fishing. But always, every summer, there was… THE BEACH.
It wasn’t something we put much thought into, it’s just something that many families who are not landlocked, do in the summer. But, it was always on the top of my summer bucket list, one of those outings that I looked forward to, while daydreaming at work. I imagined the smiling, freckled faces, the sand castles, body surfing, collecting shells and sand-dollars…all of it. The reality of a trip to the ocean with children and a husband who is not overly fond of crowds is quite different. Yet, every year, like a woman who instantly forgets the pain of labor when the baby arrives, I too, forgot every June, how very ego shattering a family activity trip to the shore can be.
It always started well…usually something like this. My husband and I, sharing a drink and a late night cigarette (hey! Don’t judge, that was way back in my 20’s!), would concoct the plan amidst alcohol’s sweet amnesia, and just like Eve in the garden of Eden, I’d be the one to seduce my poor husband into believing that it would be great! “The weather is supposed to be nice tomorrow, and since we’re both off, how about we surprise the kids and take them to the beach?!?” My husband, a curious combination of travel buff, yet large crowd abhor-er, climbed eagerly aboard the figurative road trip bus, as he always does, no matter the destination. Thus, our cigarettes and coffee brandies forgotten for the moment, we both leaped into action, unearthing my mother’s old beach umbrella, and dragging the old sand chairs, the low kind that unfold with the itchy webbing, out of a corner of the garage where they had been tossed after last year’s fiasco.
And so, under the cloak of darkness and with alcohol’s sweet blessing, we happily prepared for our excursion. Sandwiches were made, ice trays full and in the freezer, ready to grab in the morning. Sand toys, towels, chairs, umbrella, sunscreen, all packed and in the trunk; all that was left was to sleep and surprise the kids in the morning. And we did, although the brightness of the day was a bit harsher than we’d anticipated the night before. But the children were as happy and as excited as we’d hoped, so off we went, kids bouncing around in the backseat (children did not sit in car seats until high school in the 90s!), singing songs and chatting excitedly…for the first mile.
Yet, anyone who has ever brought kids to the beach, or anywhere actually, knows how the rest of the story goes. Within minutes, someone in the backseat is accused of staring at the other, someone is taking up more than their share of the seat, someone has to pee, even though that someone had been told to go before the happy carload departed. Finally there, after several rounds of “what state is that car from?” ” Geography,” and “I spy” a parking dispute erupts… “Keep going, there might be a better spot further on.” “No, I’m not going to keep driving around and around, I’m staying here.” “But then, we have to walk so far!” The eagle, or rather our old Mercury Lynx landed, and there she stayed.
Everyone out, weighted down like Sherpas, with enough equipment to live on the sand for at least a week, everyone trudges happily along and along, and along… Finally an economy car sized area is spotted and the bedraggled children dump their bags and chairs and stand obediently in the blazing sun while I struggle to dig out the sunscreen and apply it to their rapidly freckling little Irish-skin bodies, while Dad wrestles with the old rusty umbrella, borrowed from my mother years ago, having dragged it out of its corner of the garage last night, where it was unceremoniously dumped next to the old chairs, 364 days ago.
I wont bore my readers with all of the harsh details of the rest of the day’s events. Suffice it to say that like life in general, it had its good times and bad. However, I distinctly remember having more good times than bad as a kid at the beach myself. All the things I had daydreamed about at work, were the things I remembered doing as a kid. For some reason, it really was not that fun anymore, as the mother. Of course there were squabbles between the children as any day, but add to that two hungover parents, the fact that the sun was too hot and water too cold, our sandwiches inexplicably had a fine layer of sand in them so that our peanut butter, and our ham, and our bologna now had an unpalatable crunch. Our bottoms got sandy, and our shoulders sunburned. The kids did not play as much as I had imagined and instead seemed to skulk around the umbrella, eating salty potato chips out of the bag and complaining of thirst that was apparently impossible to quench with the cans of soda we’d bought at a convenience store, special for the occasion, as they were now far too warm to ease their parched throats.
So, after an appropriate amount of time had elapsed, and having waited out the “OK guys, you have 5 more minutes,” term limit twice, Dad again, with grim determination, and a now intimidating set to his jaw, grappled with the ancient umbrella while I cheerfully stuffed wet and sandy towels in a straw beach bag, and helped listless children search for their flip flops. Trudging quietly now to the car, parked insanely far away to save a dollar on parking, I offered up the beach-day cherry on top to the weary beach-goers, whose heads were now bowed as if in defeat, under the weight of the shore accouterments…. “Anyone feel like ice-cream?!?” “YEAH!!” they cried, with a little pep in their steps, the final push they needed to stagger to the car, which sat in the farthest corner of the parking lot, shining like a garish red oasis in dessert sun.
And so, with sticky hands and faces, and with drops all over sandy bottomed shorts from ice cream someone had dripped on themselves because they had insisted on a cone only (“I don’t want a bowl!!!”), and uncomfortably sunburned, the Warner family sedan lurched home chasing the sunset and the happy American family dream. A determined father, a weary mother, a sticky daughter, and a sunburned son, but with another family achievement unlocked, and at least one annual summer expectation scratched off the list.
A few years have gone by since then, about 20 actually. My children are grown, one with a child of her own, and I no longer feel the need to plan a beach day because I believed that is what I should do to ensure my children had a happy childhood. My husband and I actually go now because we want to. In fact, we went the day before yesterday, on the spur of the moment because he had to pick up a part for his four wheeler near the coast, so we decided to check out a new spot. The only chairs we brought were the ones that are always in my trunk, but hardly ever use because we like to explore, not sit. We didn’t need an umbrella for the same reason and with no expectations or supplies weighing us down, save a trusty backpack that we put all the sand-dollars and interesting shells we’d found, we played and explored like children all day, and until the sun set. And when we drove home and stopped for ice cream, I got a Blizzard, so no drips.
I must say, I love my children dearly, and I would not change the experience of giving to them the absolute best childhood I could possibly give them, full of every adventure we could afford, and spending nearly every minute that I could with them, for anything in this world. And I used to think too, as I have heard many of my young mom co-workers say of their children, “stop growing!” But, let me tell you something on this Labor Day weekend, there is life after your children have left the nest, and it’s not at all laborious. It’s actually quite glorious.
