No, if I have to go to the (beeping) coast AGAIN, then you you have to read about it AGAIN. Seriously. I've never been one for stoicism. I'm dragging all your asses down with me.
Todd has taken the kids to the beach for several weekends in a row, with the big build-up being that on the 4th of July, Mama was coming too. While I did manage to get one corner of my mouth to lift a little, I noticed my kids were wearing pretty thin with this routine. I hate to say this, because Todd busts his ass to show us a good time, and if I do say so, forks out a pretty penny as well, but there are only so many things we can do there. We lived there for ten years, so the otters and sea lions on the bayfront aren't exactly evoking shrieks of delight, and we're surely not reducing ourselves to some touristy bullshit like Ripleys or a whale watching boat, whereupon one learns just how fucking stinky those lurky, terrifying creatures are. For $60. So we mostly hang at the beach until I whine that I'm getting emaciated and when is lunch? Then we trudge up this monstrous hill, which I'm almost certain was crafted by satan himself, and after I'm artificially revived, we head to Grand Central, where my kids are now convinced that I will be shat upon by another bird. (They know about my luck, as do some of you.) After lunch we hit Ray's Food Place and gather those goodies that are only permissible because A)someone else is paying and B) that person is not looking. Then we rent a movie at Chuck's, and go BACK down the devil hill, costing me what precious little meniscal tissue I have left in my knees. I sit on my ass pretending that the fire builds itself, and that I deserve bonus points for, well, being there, and making a good show. At one point I lay on my stomach to read, in my make-shift bedroom, and a furious gust of sand blew right down my back and deep (DEEP!) into my underwear. In case you're wondering, there is no discreet way to dislodge? scrape? remove? a sandstorm from your crack. So you just nod to yourself "I'm roughing it," and feel thankful that if anyone can distract your from your gritty dilemma, it's David Sedaris. The s'mores weren't as good this time, and I was reminded that I hate chocolate. Back up at the "bungalow." (read: 30-ft. travel trailer from the 60's, in all its original splendor, er, putrescence) After settling in for a movie, I became tired and went to bed on the only big, regular bed. This is no mystery. I'm fat and as such, have weak joints and a whole mess of shit that entitles me to the bed. But, entitled though I may have felt, I was appropriately chagrined to wake up alone and find out that no one wanted to sleep with my snoring. As it was they shut all the doors leading to the bedroom and slept together in a heap, in hopes of insulating themselves from the offensive guttural gasping.
I meant to take a picture of the shower in this place. It was torn out of a dollhouse and moved into this trailer. Anyway, yesterday morning, while T walked on the beach, I wanted there to be no doubt about our imminent departure so I rather shittily packed everything. I then decided to skip a shower (a first for me, ever in my life), and speed home. I must say that for all my incessant whining, my kids were so glad to be there with me, and we did capture some smiles, even mine, though I apologize now for the barnacles embedded in my teeth. Smiling kids is what it's all about...well, that and hitting Starbucks on the way out, even if they only had reduced fat cinnamon crumble cake.
My bedroom, with a well-stocked bedside stand:
Proof that I can crack a smile even when the nearest Old Navy is 100 miles away:
Mama's beach beauty:
Quinn, intent on starting the bonfire:
Some people look radiant on the beach. I look like a beached manatee. And this is Quinn's new "I-don't-want-my-picture-taken face:"
Possibly the only moment in which Reilly has been still her entire life. My sweet girl: