Thursday, June 2, 2011

We're going to enjoy the damn beach, dammit!

I try really hard to not make commitments and New Year’s resolutions, et al because such an action usually guarantees complete and utter crash-and-burn failure.  Nonetheless, I informed my husband this weekend that I unilaterally decided on a theme for the summer:  We’re going to the damn beach, dammit.

Although Scott laughed at my need to declare a theme, he was enthusiastically on board with the subject matter.

Why did I feel the need to take such a goofy step?  Well—first off—I am goofy.  Secondly, we are apparently very dim bulbs that require dramatic action to remind us how lucky we are. 

Duh...hello?  We live at the beach!

It is a terribly sad state of affairs when I meet someone out of town and I tell them where I live.  They get this jealous gleam in their eye and say, “Oh, you are so lucky!  Do you just go to the beach all the time?”

At that point, I shrug furtively and give sort of a pained look while saying, “No, not really.”

As a matter of fact, it is a fairly common thing that folks who live at the beach rarely, if ever, go to the beach.  Of course there are the surfers who move down here specifically for the beach and they blow the curve a touch, but their numbers aren’t legion.  No, living at the beach makes one rather desperate to avoid the crowds of tourists who tend toward rowdy or lost—either way they drive like they don’t have the sense God gave a paving brick.

We kind of had an excuse to not go when we had Baby Belle 1.  When she was little, we tried to take her to the beach a couple of times and it didn’t go so well.  She hated the sand (it got her dirty) and she was terrified of the water.  She put up such a fuss every time we tried that it was a whole lot easier to stop trying.  A whole lot easier.

Then Baby Belle 2 came along and—good Lord—if it was easier not to take one to the beach, it was completely insane to try to take two to the beach.  We weren’t masochists, for Heaven’s sake.

Then, a couple of weekends ago, we decided to go to the beach while Scott’s parents were in town.  Baby Belle 1 took to the water like a fish (she gets freaked out swimming in a pool, but throw in currents, waves and possibly dangerous sea creatures and she’s the Little Mermaid) and—although Baby Belle 2 didn’t like the water one little tiny bit, she played in the sand and got so dirty that I didn’t think I would ever get her clean (still not sure).  When it was all said and done, we had one mighty fine time. 

That same week, I was talking to Baby Belle 1 in the car on the way home from school and she asked, “Mama, are we lucky to live at the beach?”

Random, but “You know what?  Yeah!  We are!  Folks look forward to vacations down here and we live here all the time.”

“Wow.  That’s cool.”

It is cool!  We live at the beach!  (Did I mention that already?  It’s just that it took a while to sink in—as I get older, my head gets harder.) 

It was fortuitous that I had this magnificent epiphany at the beginning of the summer season because that meant I could actually do something about it for a change.  We are fortunate in that we have a place to park, eat, potty and shower and the basic amenities help tons when one has small children.  Of course, we’ll still have to brave the tourists in addition to the Rasta wannabes and beach bunnies getting an early start on their “attendance” at UNC-Weed, but I’ll make Scott drive and I’ll close my eyes—that’s pretty much the best I can do.

Yes, boys and belles, the Councils are going to enjoy the beach or die trying this summer.  Yep, we’ll have fun if it kills us.  It is highly possible that you might see me touch upon this subject again. 


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