No, this is a post about the fact that last summer I decided I would never again take my children to the beach by myself. After that one and only time of attempting it with a 1-year-old, a semi-rabid 3-year-old, and two boys who whined and cried and ran out in traffic, I vowed never again unless I had several more arms, like Octomom (whatever happened to her?), and a pack mule.
But this morning I got a crazy notion.
After trying unsuccessfully to get my family to the community center on time to take my stretch and tone class, I got to thinking that maybe, just maybe, we should take advantage of the fact that the sky is finally blue and the thermostat has reached 90. Maybe, just maybe, they were ready to try again.
So I began to quietly prepare a cooler lunch, without alerting anyone, just in case they all turned crazy and made me change my mind. But they sat quietly on the couch, all four of them, and watched Phineas and Ferb while I made the lunch, and when I told them to get on their swimsuits they mostly obeyed promptly (one child may have threatened not to come unless there was a playground involved, and one mother may have threatened to get a babysitter and leave him home by himself) and we headed to the beach.
Where God had reserved the primo parking place on the street just for us and I only had to walk about 20 yards to reach this glorious spot:
And my kids swam and splashed and found huge logs to ride on.
And the two-year-old played happily in the sand and never ventured more than ankle deep.
And they built sand castles.
And allowed me to sit and just enjoy watching them.
I still can't take my eyes off them long enough to read a book, but I was able to sit down today, which hasn't happened at the beach in the last four years.
What an incredible difference one year makes.
There is hope!
The grocery store is still my arch nemesis and conquers me weekly, but the beach...
I think the beach is again my friend.