Beach Day

I took the kids to the beach yesterday.  We really needed to get out; with my knee surgery last week and all the rainy weather, it feels like this summer has been mostly spent sitting in the air conditioning or wandering around WalMart.  Not exactly stuff to write home about.  

So the knee is getting stronger, and I asked around to find the beach with the least amount of walking involved.  My facebook friends did not disappoint.  We found a great spot, with a parking lot right next to the sand. It was perfect. 

Going to the beach is one of those things that we’ve been doing since the kids were small.  I have tons of photos of sand castle building and ice-cream eating and wave jumping. When you’ve been doing a thing for so long, it’s only natural to make comparisons. 

Some things remain the same, and some things are different now. 

*****

Same: They wake up easily, excited for a day at the beach. 

Different: They shower and find their bathing suits and grab a towel… without any help from me. 

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Same: I pack sandwiches and snacks in a cooler bag. 

Different: They load up the car with chairs and umbrellas and bags. 

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Same: We stop at Dunkin Donuts and get munchkins and an iced coffee for me…

Different: … and they get iced coffees, too. 

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Same: We crank the music loud and sing along as we drive down the highway.

Different: They control the playlist, and I admire their taste in music. 

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Same: The drive is longer than expected.

Different: Nobody asks Are we there yet? 

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Same: We pull into the parking lot and someone announces It smells like the ocean!

Different: A competent teen walks across the lot and slides in my credit card at the paystation.

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Same: There are umbrellas and chairs and coolers and boogie boards to unload…

Different: … but the sand toys are conspicuously absent. 

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Same: I throw my cooler bag over my shoulder and reach for my beach chair…

Different: … but the boys have grabbed everything else, and I walk toward the sand feeling strangely unencumbered. 

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Same: We forgot to bring the stupid spiral attachment for the bottom of the umbrella. 

Different: A different competent teen grabs a rock and hammers it securely into the sand. 

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Same: The kids head for the water, before I’ve even taken my shoes off. 

Different: I watch them, without rushing, and settle into my chair. 

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Same: They spend hours jumping waves, splashing and giggling in the ocean. 

Different: I lounge in my chair, sipping lemonade, reading my book, and watching them play.

—– 

Same: I count heads in the water. 

Different: I also read my book, close my eyes, and relax, (mostly) unafraid that someone will drown. 

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Same: I swim with them, once I’m hot enough.  We splash and joke and they implore Mom! Mom!  Watch this! 

Different: When I’ve had enough salt water, I splash them one last time and begin to swim back toward the sand.  No one begs me to stay. 

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Same: They come out of the water when they’re hungry. 

Different: They eat everything I’ve packed, and nobody drops food in the sand. 

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Same: I mention they’re looking a little pink. 

Different: The youngest doesn’t argue.  He replies, “Crap.  Thanks.  Will you pass me the sunscreen?” and asks his brother to spray him. 

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Same: I’m ready for a nap and they’re ready to go back in the water.  

Different: I lay on the sand and they go back in the water. 

—–

Same: The beach begins to empty.  They still splash in the waves. 

Different: I’m content to stay.  We have no timeline; no naps, no meal schedule or bathtime worries.  We’ll be done when we’re done and eat when we’re hungry and sleep when we’re tired. 

—–

Same: There’s a mixture of contentment and vague disappointment as we pack up.  

Different: They shake the sand of their towels and pack up the chairs and umbrella. They bear the burden of lugging it all back to the truck.  I carry my bag and walk slowly behind them, watching their broad, bare shoulders and wondering where my babies went. 

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Same: We drink from lukewarm water bottles and relish in the air conditioning.  

Same: They fall asleep on the way home; peaceful, content, exhausted.  

Same: I sneak glances at them, overwhelmed with love and gratitude and joy.  

Different: I want to end there.  On that beautiful, happy, note.  But that is not truth, and I want to be truthful.  The truth is that I am filled with a deep, deep sadness.  Not grief, but impending grief.  I know that these days are nearly over.  I used to take four of them to the beach.  Now we’re down to just two.  I used to think these summers would be endless, and now I’m grasping for just one more.  

I know that it’s coming.  I know that they’re leaving.  I know I can’t stop it.  What I don’t know is what my summers will look like when they’re gone. 

The truth is that I’m sitting here in my office, with tears rolling down my cheeks as I type, so desperately sad that we’re running out of time.