No Need to Bring a Camera

Into the big tote bag went the old plaid beach blanket, bug spray, hand wipes, and the blanket that is on the sofa, in case it got cool, but not a camera. You can't take pictures of fireworks, I didn't need it.

And so this is my picture, of the four of us on the grass in front of the church, sitting on the bluff above the beach, watching the annual firework display. It's an unseasonably cool night, cool enough that I have on jeans and my favorite gray cardigan, the girls are both wearing striped pullovers over their summer play clothes, and Jack is wearing shorts with a navy fleece. We are layered on top of one another, on the beach blanket: Jack and me on the bottom with Kate to my left, her head on my chest in hopes of muffling some of the sound, and Mary to my right, in between us. She is clutching a bag of popcorn that her dad bought from the Lion's Club tent, just across the grass. The blanket they brought, one given to us at our wedding with my name misspelled on the embroidery, is across our feet.

The old tote bag, that has taken us to the beach and back so many times, is now folded behind my head, a pillow as I lay back, and from my vantage point I see all three of them, the people I like best in the world, as an amazing array of fireworks blows up beyond them, over the water.

No need to bring a camera, this is my picture. Enjoy a wonderful Independence Day with those you love, and fireworks.

Leave Your (Sandy) Shoes at the Door

We stopped at the end of the driveway.

 "All right, what's the plan once we get to the back door?"

"Mom", elongated, much more like "Mooooahmmm", in two exasperated sighs.

We walked to the back door where, because they are so easy to annoy, I ran through the basic drill, just as a refresher.

"Kick off your shoes outside, hang your towels on the chairs on the deck, run upstairs to rinse off, one in the shower and one in the tub, and then throw your suits down to me, got it?".

Two sandy smiling faces nodded at me, yes, we know they said.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside, followed immediately by two sandal wearing, towel wrapped wet sandy bodies.

"What are you doing?"

They looked at me as if I was crazy.

To be clear, I'm not unreasonable. I know that this was the first trip to the beach this summer, a place they had not been in at least 9 months. I also know that 9 months prior they did this exact thing no less than thirty times so I thought that perhaps it was still in there, this leave your sand at the door routine that we have been perfecting for 8 years.

"We just discussed this, you were going to leave your sandals outside? Anyone?"

Nothing but blank stares. They haven't been to school since Friday, clearly the summer brain drain was in full effect. They had forgotten everything they had learned last summer, or 2 minutes prior.

Kate began to nod, "oh, you wanted us to leave our sandals outside? Oh...". She opened the back door, flung her sandals into the yard, not actually stepping outside herself, and came back in, smiling like the class valedictorian. Mary, not one to be left out, followed along.

"Now what do you think you need to do?"

Another round of confused stares, leading me to believe that catching a flight to Paris might seem just as logical as taking off your wet bathing suits. Mary, our first born, our leader, stepped up, "I know Mom, put on pajamas".

"Yes, correct, eventually, but look around. You are standing here in wet bathing suits, wrapped in wet beach towels. What steps might you take first?", I asked, as if this was not in any way a rhetorical question.

Mary hit the buzzer first once again, this time stripping completely in the kitchen, directly in front of the open back door.

Kate, taking full advantage of a few extra IQ points, shook her head, "um, I don't think so Mary, you are naked!". This immediately devolved into wild fits of laughter, as if they had never seen one another naked before. I opened the refrigerator and helped myself to a Summer Shandy, having no such problems recalling my summer routine.

Mary was now jumping around the room, shaking sand from every bit of her naked body as her sister stood, still wrapped in her towel, watching this side show like a shivering voyeur at a convention for the confused.

"MOM! What do I do NOW?" screamed the naked child.

"Well Mary here's what I need you to do. Hop on your bike and ride into town for a pizza, can you carry a pizza in your basket?

She rolled her eyes at me, "MOM! I am naked!".

Clearly disgusted with me and my lack of specific direction, she marched upstairs, taking matters into her own hands.

Kate watched her go, looked at me, and then walked outside to hang her towel on a deck chair. I was encouraged, hopeful.

"Now what do I do Mom?"

Oh summer, I've missed you.

Getting Older with Old Friends

It's a bit disconcerting when you refer to someone you met after you graduated from college as an "old friend".

As it turns out, we are now old, although she is older than me.

The list of what I look for in a friend seems to be formed from a constantly evolving set of criteria. When I was six proximity was key. Mary and Josie lived directly behind us; we all went to the same school, we  loved selling lemonade and we liked to ride bikes but most importantly, I could be at their house, unassisted, in about 30 seconds. They were my best friends.

In college geography continued to play an important role in my friend selection, most of my best friends being roommates or those who lived down the hall, but there was more to consider. College friends had to make me laugh, drink beer in dive bars, ride bikes, and understand that there was more to education than what could be learned in a classroom. Commonalities were important; my political science studying self made very few friends in the math department.

When Lisa and I met she was married, lived in an actual house and had a husband who said things like "pick up hotdogs on your way home". It all sounded very grown up and suburban to me. I lived with two other girls in a one bedroom apartment and existed on carry out Chinese food.  Clearly we could never be friends.

It seems I was wrong.

Geography doesn't matter so much anymore. My friends don't live next door but I can still get to them, unassisted, when necessary. I don't spend my evenings in dive bars, at least not as often. My current hang out is the neighborhood coffee shop where I routinely run into some of my favorite new friends. It's tea, rather than lemonade or beer, that occupies the middle part of my life.

Rather than find a good fit for me, I now seem to seek out those who are a good fit for us, for all four of us. People who like my children, and people whose children I like. People who are not afraid to point out to my girls that hanging over a high fence above concrete is not probably a good idea, people that I know will catch them when they fall. People who will ride bikes to the beach with us, and whose children might labor along as mine do, because bike riding is still important, even when you're old.

Just like old friends are important, especially those who evolved with my list and went from being exotic home owners to people who collect Nancy Drew books for my children. Friends who happily spend a cool summer evening at the beach, watching our children play in the sand, celebrating 50 wonderful years of being the kind of person you'd really like to have a drink with, be it lemonade, beer or tea.

Beach Necessities

We needed a vacation. Jack was having one, hours away on his annual four day weekend golf bender, and the girls and I were left at home with all the responsibilities of summer. We were ready for a day at the beach but this time we chose a one hour drive over a 15 minute walk. There was no planning, and very little actual thought beyond wanting to see the view from the other side of the water.

Bag packed, dog walked, children in the car, and one hour later we were as far away from the city as you need to be if you only need one day of vacation. We remembered bathing suits, towels and sunblock; we forgot pails and shovels and the big blue umbrella.

"Girls! We forgot your sand buckets!"
"That's all right Mom, we have these cups from Starbucks, they'll work".

Really?

They did. We had a nice sandy picnic, we played in the water, and for several glorious hours, we built a sand village with nothing more than the plastic cups we had accumulated throughout the day. For the first time in months, the girls collaborated, rather than argued, and worked well together to create a neighborhood of small sand huts, with no worries as to whose turn it was or whose bucket was last used for water, the usual banter of the beach architecture.

As one who has gone to great lengths to limit the amount of toys we own, who firmly believes that the best tool for play is a vivid imagination (and a sister), the Starbucks cup sand suburb was reassuring. My children might understand. While they will always want, they don't always need; adorned with shells and rocks and feathers, it was simply beautiful. A fine reminder to their mother who usually brings scoops and shovels and castle shaped buckets to the beach, all we really need is six hands, a few plastic cups and
time.

For one day, we had all the time we could need.

Two Hours From Home

From the front porch of our apartment, planes that have been routed over the water fly just north of us, on approach to O’Hare. On clear days I can make out the markings on the tail, American and United the most common, but it’s Alitalia, Aer Lingus and Lufthansa that always take me away. To the girls I will say “where do you think that plane has been?” but it’s really a game for me. It’s easy to see myself inside the plane, so eager to be on the ground after seven hours in the air. When asked to prepare for landing I reach under the seat to push my almost finished book back into my once organized bag. Now full of airport magazines, shortbread and a tea cup I’m worried might break, it’s a disheveled mess. I’m ready to be home but full of adventure, and soon will be ready to go again.

When my friends played Barbie, I played flight attendant. On a flight to Florida I found, in my young flyer activity pack, a shiny gold pair of Delta wings. It was as if I had been handed a magic superhero cape, assigned as an apprentice to the brave cabin crew. Certain that I had been singled out from all other able bodied eight year old passengers , and would be called upon to help should an emergency arise, I dutifully studied the evacuation procedures in my seat pocket, and wore my wings on every flight thereafter, until the back fell away and the gold shine fell flat. From then on flying outfits were carefully considered, so as to be flight crew appropriate; always a skirt, best to have a short jacket, for showcasing the wings, and if possible, a coordinating beret. The Pucci designed Braniff uniforms directed my young fashion sense; at ten I ached for turquoise pumps.

My grandparents took me to Europe when I was twelve, first to Vienna followed by a cruise down the Danube, through Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia, Romania, Russia and finally Turkey. From the roof of our hotel, Istanbul at night was, and remains now, one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. My grandmother took me on an Istanbul city bus, my father on the Mexico City subway, all so very far away from my suburban childhood, and all preparing me for the requisite six week post college Eurail-facilitated sojourn, with not one sense of where I was going. Occasionally lost, and eventually found, I discovered that German food was not my favorite, beaches in Italy are beautiful, and England really did feel like home.

Our first trip together, for many couples a quick weekend excursion, was a hastily planned, and then executed, trip to Italy. Decided upon after finding flights to Rome less expensive than to Denver, our intended destination, my future husband and I took off without one reservation. There was no itinerary, nothing beyond landing in Rome, and leaving from the same spot 12 days later. He was new to this kind of travel, having never before left the states; an emergency passport, one worn copy of Rick Steve’s guide to Italy, and we were as prepared as we wanted to be. Traveling is an interesting way to get to know someone, traveling sans itinerary in a country where your combined knowledge of the language amounts to buon natale, pesto and Prosecco, is an entirely different definition of getting to know you. In ten days we knew, not how the other squeezed the toothpaste, but more importantly, that traveling was something we could do together forever.

We got married. We amassed frequent flyer miles and spent long romantic dinners planning our next adventure. We went to England, Ireland and Mexico. He got a taste for adventure, I got pregnant. Nine months later there were two babies; we sent American Airlines a birth announcement and waited for their Advantage numbers to arrive in the mail.

Their first flight was at three weeks. Bundled and carried, they slept the entire time. After that, flying was easy. Dallas, Boston, Phoenix, Ireland, Philadelphia, Denver, Puerto Vallarta, for two years, two glorious years, we flew wherever we wanted, with little effort and little discomfort. And then it happened, vomit. Once, twice, three times, every time; one of our frequent flyers had developed a horrid aversion to air travel.

Three years ago we went on hiatus, our flying days over until someone either outgrew this affliction or grew old enough to be heavily medicated for the entire flight. We began searching for getaway options within two hours, by car, from Chicago. For a brief time I explored the idea of moving the entire family to Boston, or London; so much more to see, I believed, in our two hour road window. My husband, with an office in downtown Chicago, protested. Nearby vacation choices were limited; we considered Wisconsin, dismissed Indiana and settled on Michigan.

From the front porch of our small town Michigan beach rental I see kites flying overhead, the nearest airport being over one hour away. My urban children, at home restricted to supervised play at the neighborhood park, are free to run from one end of the yard, around the cottage and back, shrieking wildly as they chase each other through the sprinkler. They kick balls, play hopscotch and lay in the grass creating animals and shapes from the infrequent clouds that float lazily by. We eat fresh blueberry ice cream (not a scoop of gelato to be found in the three block downtown area), grill hamburgers and savor the corn bought on Wednesday morning from the small farmer’s market. We trade in the city bus that takes us about our neighborhood for two wheels, bicycles being the only form of transportation required. Fireflies, s’mores and sand pails define our holiday; passports and guidebooks are left at home.

I never thought I would think that a small town by the beach, only two hours from Chicago, was the perfect vacation destination, but now I do.

Building A Summer

Mary and Kate are playing Famous Architects. It's a new game, surely borne out of recently spending four days in Michigan with four architects. They've got a wine box, tons of construction paper, a soon to be depleted glue stick, colored pencils and Velcro hair rollers, dug out from the depths of the bathroom cabinet. A city is rising before me on the carpet outside their playroom.

It's a necessary reminder, that some of the best days are spent playing at home with supplies on hand. In these last few weeks before school begins, I am hurriedly checking items off my summer to do list. Yesterday morning was spent at the History Museum where we explored freedom in Chicago, wedding traditions, Chinatown and Chicago hot dog making. Monday we were at a water playground trying to escape the mad Midwestern heat. Tomorrow there is a program at the local library, Friday we've got plans to go to the beach.

As adamant as I am about lazy summers, I panic when I realize that lazy summers, on our current schedule, are only about 10 weeks long, and we've got less than four weeks to go before autumn hits and school begins. There are still things on my list to cross off: The Children's Museum, open symphony rehearsals, baseball, miniature golf, napping. We'll never get it all in, we never do. And knowing there are only 11 more summers before summer becomes simply a season characterized by heat and humidity, not a wonderful respite from school and schedules and alarm clocks, provides me little comfort.

The talk on the playground at the end of the school year was summer camp. I politely abstained. Summer camp when I was a kid meant packing your bags and heading off to Colorado or Minnesota for three weeks, not a daily 9:00 am excursion to the park, or nature center, or art museum. Too much like school, to scheduled, too much of what I wanted summer not to be, I passed on summer camp, realizing that in choosing not to work, I have chosen to spend my days with the girls, accepting the periodic insanity directly related to that decision.


Maybe sanity is overrated. Maybe I only have, relatively speaking, a short time to spend my Friday afternoons at the beach with two small but rapidly growing beach bums. Sand castles one day, wine bottle box cities the next, lazy summer afternoons building cities and memories, just what I really want to cross off that to do list.

Dudes of all Ages

There can be no greater way to illustrate just how far you have fallen into middle aged family'dom than to take your graying at the temples husband to Florida during spring break. A man who once thought of spring break as an all night drive to South Padre with 17 of his best friends (not one of which I have ever met or heard of apart from this story), a spur of the moment trip where the packing consisted of one large cooler, a pair of swim trunks and "dude, we'll buy whatever else we need there".

This spur of the moment trip was two months in the planning. There were two pieces of luggage, five canvas bags, three overnight stays en route, anti nausea medicine, coloring books, sticker books, and Jack's favorite, books on CD, but no movies. Three days down, two days back, and hours and hours of Frances, Paddington Bear, Madeline, Frog and Toad and Jack's personal favorite, Wiggleworms, "if all of the raindrops were lemon drops and gumdrops...".

This crazed spring break'er now walks to the beach with a bag over his shoulder large enough to pass as luggage on most European trains. This is a man carrying a beach umbrella, four towels, two sand buckets, two shell scooping nets, assorted digging utensils, two pairs of goggles, 17 varieties of sun block, two boxes of raisins, numerous crackers, extra sunglasses, sandals, two swimming shirts, and one soccer ball, but not one Bud Light. Please, he's matured, he now buys Sam Adams from the tiki hut, along with two virgin strawberry daiquiris, "umbrellas, yes please".

This slap in the face was tempered only by the discovery of the DBs, two dads similar in age, both receding at the hairline, dressed in alma mater visors and brightly colored flowered long shorts. One wore a shirt that said "You haven't been pucked until you've been Fudpucked", the other, quite simply, "I Like Beer". Standing for hours, feet in the water, they stood smoking and drinking who knows what from large plastic Fudpuck cups, seemingly oblivious to the family swirling about their feet. Able to crack their secret code, Jack and I watched as they nodded and grinned like 12 year old boys each time a pack of young bikini clad spring break girls walked past, ignoring them completely. The DBs, having spent the last twenty years perfecting the Cool Dude on the Beach High Five, raised their non plastic cup holding hands to slap each other high, celebrating, we can only imagine, their not being arrested for leering.

The college dudes appeared each day just as we were just packing to leave the beach, five of them, in various stages of recovery from whatever bus may have hit them the night before. Chairs lined up, save the one guy who never got a chair, ready to whistle at whatever young female form crossed their path. Whistle, yes, they did, painfully they whistled, most of them too dried up to make much sound. Thankfully by 2:00, when they surfaced, they were ready to start the process once again, and so dragged with them an enormous cooler full of Miller Lite, but apparently not one bottle of sunblock. What appeared on Day Two was not simply five hungover soon to be suburban dads, but five bright red and crispy versions of what appeared the day before, alma matter visors and common sense clearly distributed at graduation and not a minute before. From the shelter of his bright blue beach umbrella Jack smiled, whistling along, "if all of the snowflakes were candy bars and milkshakes...".

Confident that he is happy to have traded the 17 friends in the Chevy Nova for the three of us and our well stocked family car, we head to the beach for spring break. Although next year he might want to be more suitably attired, that "I Like Beer" t-shirt might be just the thing for Father's Day.