Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Sand in the vaseline - whatever that means
And in the sheets. And on the floor. And in my car. After a week's vacation at the beach, I'm unsure if the pervasive sand is bothering me more, or less. Trying to sleep with random grains of sand in my bed is only slightly less difficult than preventing 4 boys from getting sand in my bed to begin with. Pshaw, Princess and the Pea. Sand is way more annoying than any benign green vegetable. My wagon is filthy. I have become so disturbed by the external dirt on my car that the interior's imitation of an explosion in a sand-filled minute timer factory doesn't phase me any more. And speaking of time...
These two weeks at the beach are something I look forward to every year. Some folks define summer by track season in Saratoga or Jazz Fest, but, for me, it is the two weeks spent in Massachusetts in late July, that mean summer. I sometimes reflect on how blessed my family is to enjoy the travel opportunities that we do. There is something intensely satisfying to me when I hear my children make reference to a place we have visited. Just today Liam reminded Quinn that the last carousel ride he took was in Florence. How cool is that? I recall a total of two vacations from when I was a child, both camping trips taken with family friends, certainly not weeks spent seaside or going anywhere a passport is required.
I can remember the precise moment when I decided that my eventual family would travel. I was a Mother's helper in the early 80's for a family in my hometown. During a particular summer, we spent a long weekend in the Hamptons at the home of a business associate of the husband's and I was incredibly impressed by the lifestyle the homeowners enjoyed. The house was beautiful, lots of glass, a saltwater swimming pool, grass made green through the painstaking application of pesticides and attention. In the living room area there was a series of shelves that were filled with photo albums, each meticulously labeled: "France, 1979," "London, 1980," " "Newport, 1981." Wow. More than the house or the pool, I wanted THAT.
So, the boys go places, see new things, revisit familiar spots away from home and retain memories and experiences which will forever change them. And if one of the related expenses is the need for good car washing and a few night's of less than ideal sleep due to grains of sand in my bed, so be it. If I can consider each of those individual particles of sand a potential memory, being inundated by sand doesn't seem so bad at all.