The painful irony is that, in this time of my life when, for the first time, I can wander off to the beach as many times as I like (up to five, if I go once a day every day I am home without John, who "doesn't like" the beach. WHA??!), I am inclined to just stay at home.
So, the beach analogy of my life begins with my anticipation and packing. I conceive the plan ... I know! I'll take the girls to the beach!!! ... I invite a covictim, yesterday Bridgett, and we talk about it together in excited tones ... Yay! The beach!!! I pack a giant bag with everything we could possibly need at the beach, including an extra towel for drying off after dipping in the ocean waves and a clean sheet for spreading a sand-free lunch. I pack toys, drinks, bathing suits, swim diapers and the regular kind, dry clothes (extras) and anything else I can neatly organize into my overflowing bag. I love the feeling of being fully prepared. Which is a good thing since I never get the rich satisfaction of being actually prepared. We all get in the car, chatting happily of surf and sand and set off for the sun.
Arrival and unloading of bags and children from the car adds a bit of patina to the general feeling of joy ... but, as I head toward the sparkling scene of beach bags, towels and umbrellas, I am excited. Yay!! The BEACH!!! We stake out the perfect spot ... close enough to the water to monitor children, far enough back to avoid the approaching tide. As I spread my freshly laundered towel, it seems as if we'll be there until nightfall because WHY would we leave such a beautiful scene?? I carefully take off my flip flops and step on my sand free towel. Things start to sour a bit as I shoo sandy toddlers off of my pristine towel. I quickly pass out (sand free) pails and shovels and say cheerfully "ok, here you go! Remember not to get any sand on mommy's towel!" Bridgett settles into her beach chair "What a beautiful day!", she exclaims. I take off my dress coverup and replace with a tie around cover up. All is well with world.
Fast forward two hours ... each of our three children have almost drowned a few times, my towel is so sand covered, I've given up and sand is permanently sticking to my sweaty legs. My cover up is wringing wet from chasing toddlers in the water who think that they can swim since they've never actually drowned. My scalp is gritty with sand from Ava running her sandy little hands through my hair. Our beach toys are scattered in a 100 foot radius around me and half of them are missing, having been "adopted" by strangers' children. I can see a shovel and rake drifting out to sea and I make another rescue at sea. We decide (still cheerful) to break for lunch. Bridgett bravely stays with crazy children while I slog through the sand to the snack bar. I am there for a half hour while I wait for food I hope will be ingested with limited dirt, sand, shells and rocks. I think with satisfaction of my gloriously sand-free sheet, still folded in my bag, waiting to be the floor of our little picnic. I finally slog back through the sand with our lunch and Bridgett sees me approach with a look of relief that says "it would be easier to let them drown".
I set down the spoils for a moment to get my picnic sheet spread out ... in those ten seconds, a seagull swoops down and makes off with a fry. HEY! We yell and then ha ha aren't those seagulls AGGRESSIVE? Ha ha ha. We call the girls and trouble starts. Scarlett doesn't want to eat at all, C & A want to eat what isn't their's. The seagulls have staked out our picnic in force and Ava, a true bird lover since infanthood, throws them a fry. There is a general squawking commotion as seagulls frantically attack the fry and the lucky seagull who got to it first. More good natured laughter from the moms ...
Fast forward two minutes, after Ava has UNwrapped her "Tuscan Wrap" and Claire has dropped her grilled cheese in the sand. The sheet is now covered in sand. I say to Bridgett regarding the wrap ... maybe I'll just throw this to the seagulls? Sure! she says ... they'll fish it out of the trash anyway! So I do and we are instantly in middle of a vortex of fluttering wings. Bridgett yells over the squawking din "it is good luck to be pooped on by a bird!" Our sunbathing neighbors have halted conversations to watch the scene unfolding in front of them. I am beginning to feel sweaty, sandy and frantic to return to the interior of my sand free car and home. I capture a passing arm and wrestle Ava out of her bathing suit and into a dry set of clothes. I haul her into her shoes, ignoring the massive quantities of sand on her feet, and turn to capture Claire. Ava heads for the waves. "STOP!" I order her as I repeat the undressing redressing on Claire. Claire heads for the water to join her sister. I am losing my temper. As I roll my soggy sandy towel, tie around cover up, toddler bathing suits into the soggy sandy picnic sheet, I resist my urge to shout my new favorite obsenity (that begins with the letter F). I grab Claire by the arm with clenched claws and shout at her. I now have the undivided attention of every neighbor between us and the parking lot and I DON'T CARE. I drag Ava out of the water hissing threats regarding her future. I realize I can't find my shoes. After a minute of searching, I give up and we set off over the scorching hot sand toward the car. I yell directions at the three girls to follow me. Bridgett brings up the rear, pregnant and weighted down under a load of bags and foldable seating. She keeps the herd from scattering completely. I cross hot sand, asphalt parking lot, and a crosswalk all barefoot. In my mind I am thinking "No. I will never ever go to the beach again. Not with Them."
We make it to the car and I shower my two with threats until they are safely buckled in their carseats. My head aches, my feet hurt, I feel that sunburny feeling which is aggravated by a general sensation of sandy grit on skin. It takes the whole ride home before I can speak to C&A without saying things I don't mean that they will be recalling in therapy in the years to come. I strip us down to diapers and bikini on the front porch, amassing a huge pile of sandy attire by the door. I drop bags in the entryway and note my shoes inside one of them. I call for backup (Carolina) who appears like a vision to sweep my children upstairs for a nap. I grab Harriette and head to my bedroom to hide out for two hours before I feel I can go on.
Today, at playgroup, Bridgett and I actually told everyone how lovely the beach is and I went as far as to suggest a "playgroup at the beach". So I AM insane!
So yes, life is pretty much like that.
So, the beach analogy of my life begins with my anticipation and packing. I conceive the plan ... I know! I'll take the girls to the beach!!! ... I invite a covictim, yesterday Bridgett, and we talk about it together in excited tones ... Yay! The beach!!! I pack a giant bag with everything we could possibly need at the beach, including an extra towel for drying off after dipping in the ocean waves and a clean sheet for spreading a sand-free lunch. I pack toys, drinks, bathing suits, swim diapers and the regular kind, dry clothes (extras) and anything else I can neatly organize into my overflowing bag. I love the feeling of being fully prepared. Which is a good thing since I never get the rich satisfaction of being actually prepared. We all get in the car, chatting happily of surf and sand and set off for the sun.
Arrival and unloading of bags and children from the car adds a bit of patina to the general feeling of joy ... but, as I head toward the sparkling scene of beach bags, towels and umbrellas, I am excited. Yay!! The BEACH!!! We stake out the perfect spot ... close enough to the water to monitor children, far enough back to avoid the approaching tide. As I spread my freshly laundered towel, it seems as if we'll be there until nightfall because WHY would we leave such a beautiful scene?? I carefully take off my flip flops and step on my sand free towel. Things start to sour a bit as I shoo sandy toddlers off of my pristine towel. I quickly pass out (sand free) pails and shovels and say cheerfully "ok, here you go! Remember not to get any sand on mommy's towel!" Bridgett settles into her beach chair "What a beautiful day!", she exclaims. I take off my dress coverup and replace with a tie around cover up. All is well with world.
Fast forward two hours ... each of our three children have almost drowned a few times, my towel is so sand covered, I've given up and sand is permanently sticking to my sweaty legs. My cover up is wringing wet from chasing toddlers in the water who think that they can swim since they've never actually drowned. My scalp is gritty with sand from Ava running her sandy little hands through my hair. Our beach toys are scattered in a 100 foot radius around me and half of them are missing, having been "adopted" by strangers' children. I can see a shovel and rake drifting out to sea and I make another rescue at sea. We decide (still cheerful) to break for lunch. Bridgett bravely stays with crazy children while I slog through the sand to the snack bar. I am there for a half hour while I wait for food I hope will be ingested with limited dirt, sand, shells and rocks. I think with satisfaction of my gloriously sand-free sheet, still folded in my bag, waiting to be the floor of our little picnic. I finally slog back through the sand with our lunch and Bridgett sees me approach with a look of relief that says "it would be easier to let them drown".
I set down the spoils for a moment to get my picnic sheet spread out ... in those ten seconds, a seagull swoops down and makes off with a fry. HEY! We yell and then ha ha aren't those seagulls AGGRESSIVE? Ha ha ha. We call the girls and trouble starts. Scarlett doesn't want to eat at all, C & A want to eat what isn't their's. The seagulls have staked out our picnic in force and Ava, a true bird lover since infanthood, throws them a fry. There is a general squawking commotion as seagulls frantically attack the fry and the lucky seagull who got to it first. More good natured laughter from the moms ...
Fast forward two minutes, after Ava has UNwrapped her "Tuscan Wrap" and Claire has dropped her grilled cheese in the sand. The sheet is now covered in sand. I say to Bridgett regarding the wrap ... maybe I'll just throw this to the seagulls? Sure! she says ... they'll fish it out of the trash anyway! So I do and we are instantly in middle of a vortex of fluttering wings. Bridgett yells over the squawking din "it is good luck to be pooped on by a bird!" Our sunbathing neighbors have halted conversations to watch the scene unfolding in front of them. I am beginning to feel sweaty, sandy and frantic to return to the interior of my sand free car and home. I capture a passing arm and wrestle Ava out of her bathing suit and into a dry set of clothes. I haul her into her shoes, ignoring the massive quantities of sand on her feet, and turn to capture Claire. Ava heads for the waves. "STOP!" I order her as I repeat the undressing redressing on Claire. Claire heads for the water to join her sister. I am losing my temper. As I roll my soggy sandy towel, tie around cover up, toddler bathing suits into the soggy sandy picnic sheet, I resist my urge to shout my new favorite obsenity (that begins with the letter F). I grab Claire by the arm with clenched claws and shout at her. I now have the undivided attention of every neighbor between us and the parking lot and I DON'T CARE. I drag Ava out of the water hissing threats regarding her future. I realize I can't find my shoes. After a minute of searching, I give up and we set off over the scorching hot sand toward the car. I yell directions at the three girls to follow me. Bridgett brings up the rear, pregnant and weighted down under a load of bags and foldable seating. She keeps the herd from scattering completely. I cross hot sand, asphalt parking lot, and a crosswalk all barefoot. In my mind I am thinking "No. I will never ever go to the beach again. Not with Them."
We make it to the car and I shower my two with threats until they are safely buckled in their carseats. My head aches, my feet hurt, I feel that sunburny feeling which is aggravated by a general sensation of sandy grit on skin. It takes the whole ride home before I can speak to C&A without saying things I don't mean that they will be recalling in therapy in the years to come. I strip us down to diapers and bikini on the front porch, amassing a huge pile of sandy attire by the door. I drop bags in the entryway and note my shoes inside one of them. I call for backup (Carolina) who appears like a vision to sweep my children upstairs for a nap. I grab Harriette and head to my bedroom to hide out for two hours before I feel I can go on.
Today, at playgroup, Bridgett and I actually told everyone how lovely the beach is and I went as far as to suggest a "playgroup at the beach". So I AM insane!
So yes, life is pretty much like that.
