The View from Here at the Beach

It’s 10:30 at night on Mother’s Day. I’m the only one awake and the depth of the quiet here at the beach is unlike anything at home. Tomorrow’s my birthday and wrapped up here in the warmth of the quiet I’m reflecting on yet another year gone by (and finishing the last glass from a bottle of wine so delicious letting it go to waste would be a crime).

Last night we built what may have been the world’s smokiest fire ever, made s’mores and complained the entire time about the smoke burning our eyes and lungs. Everyone  blamed everyone else for wood that was too wet, errors in construction of the pyre, a pit not dug to specifications, marshmallows lit on fire or dropped in the sand, and pretty much all the problems of the world (which included a fair amount of marshmallow stuck rather stubbornly in Lucy’s hair). We whined like absolute babies on that cold, windy beach, laughed our heads off the entire time and loved every minute of it.

Then, when all the s’more had been eaten and that ridiculously smoky fire’s last ember extinguished, we paraded down the beach and up the street back to our cabin in a bizarre conga line that Lucy dreamed up and refused to let go of (like a pit bull with a steak) until we agreed to act upon her truly strange (and dare I say slightly deranged?) vision. She carried a lit tiki torch in the front of the line, stopping every five steps so that each person behind her could complete the action (dance move?) that she had choreographed for them. Ben posed oddly with a hand on a hip, Felicia threw her hands in the air, Terry bunny-hopped precisely three times and I shouted “Yay Mommy!” while lunging in Mary-Katherine Gallagher “superstar” fashion. Over and over again. All the way back to the cabin. I’m not sure it occurred to any of us to refuse. (And honestly, what good would it have done if we had refused? Persistent doesn’t even begin to describe Lucy once she’s sunk her teeth into something.)

This morning we ate cinnamon rolls from a can and I opened a combination of Mother’s Day and birthday presents (mostly because the kids couldn’t remember after wrapping them which gifts were which). We walked on the beach, collected sand dollars, skipped stones, read books, played board games and sat quietly in the sun on the deck. And before we settled down to watch a movie together, Ben regaled us with an a cappella rendition of Queen’s Bicycle Race so wonderfully weird I laughed until my stomach hurt.

Tomorrow we’ll fly kites, skip some more stones and find a few more perfect sand dollars before heading back to our real life. And while I’m always sad to see it end, I’m always grateful beyond belief for this wonderful weekend. Forty-five years old looks pretty good from here at the beach.

Our annual beach weekend isn’t perfect in the traditional sense. Norman Rockwell would not find much inspiration here, I’m afraid. But Mother’s Day weekend at the beach is Heagler-perfect. Perfectly wonderful in its off-kilter imperfection.

I can’t wait to do it again next year.