We just returned from a week-long beach vacation. We went to our family's Bethany Beach house with two other couples and their kids, plus Silvia, our au pair, and Carol, an au pair from one of the other families. Other than the usual scrapping and occasional sleep-deprived whininess, not to mention Abby's two days of feverish misery, I think the kids had a wonderful time. The older ones loved splashing in the waves, experimenting with boogie boards, playing at the Ocean City boardwalk, riding bikes, eating tons of junk food, watching movies and just playing their imaginary games together. Abby loved playing in the sand and sea, exploring a new house full of interesting (breakable) tchotchkes, and sleeping with Mommy and Daddy in the same room.
When I was a kid, we really didn't go away on long vacations very often. Maybe two times we drove from western Pennsylvania to the beach in Virginia or to Busch Gardens. Instead we would take day trips to places like Sea World, Kennywood, Storybook Forest or Seven Springs. I loved Sea World best. Feeding the dolphins those little fish was probably the highlight of my first 19 years. I loved everything about Sea World -- seahorses and starfish, the little necklaces you'd buy made of shells, the stuffed orcas, the seal shows and the briny smell of sea water all over Sandusky. It really was all that a kid like me, from Appalachia or thereabouts, knew about the ocean. For at least a month or so after each trip there, I wanted to be a marine biologist when I grew up.
Seven Springs was our local ski resort. In the summers, luckily, you could still buy stuff there. You could also go swimming, or play in the arcade or at the pool table, and you could even ride down the mountain on one of those mountain coasters -- but that rickety contraption wasn't installed until years after I went there (too bad). Storybook Forest, in hindsight, was a trippy little place. It was a forest, as advertised, with a paved path through the trees. You would come around the corner and there, right before your eyes, would be the old woman's shoe, or Jack Sprat's house, or the dish running away with the spoon or some damn thing. The truth is, I really don't remember much about the details except for one: I remember a crooked house, out of the Crooked Man rhyme. In case you don't remember, it goes like this:
There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile;
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.
Betcha didn't remember that one, huh? I remember that house, though. It was bigger, but not much bigger, than one of those little playhouses for the backyard --more like treehouse-sized. You would walk in the door and the floor was slanted crazily (even more than my dining room); the "furniture" all stood at strange angles, the windows were trapezoids, etc. You get the idea. For some reason, of all the mind-blowing nursery rhymes come to life that lived in Storybook Forest, that house is the only thing that clearly stands out in my mind.
Kennywood was magnificent. One of those beautiful, classic amusement parks-- I can't wait to take my own kids there one day. It had clackety wooden roller coasters; the high, swooping swings; a gorgeous carousel; the Scrambler, one of my favorites; and a beautiful, shady, grand old setting where fireworks went off only on special occasions. There was a great, meandering, peaceful car ride called "The Turnpike". We drove our own cars, but it wasn't about racing or screeching around, it was about taking in the view and feeling the elation of controlling a car when only 7 years old. In fact, amusement park rides, at least for my brother and I, were all about imagination. We would be lost in our own thoughts as the machine cranked around. Even when he was riding one of those rides for tiny tots, like little cars that just go around in a circle, it was hard to get my brother to smile at you. Not because he wasn't enjoying it -- he loved it. It was because he was somewhere else. He was Mario Andretti, or an astronaut, or a biplane pilot. I had imaginary adventures, too, but I was more often just lost in the thrill. I grinned hugely, and exulted in the thrill. Pure joy.
I know that as children, my brother and I had no idea, any more than any child does, of all the work, planning, and self-sacrifice by parents that goes into executing a family vacation with kids. There really should be another word for "vacation" when it's done with kids, because the act offers so little R&R for parents. So, now I'm taking my turn-- and I daresay that for all the benefits of having a vacation home, the work involved in putting together a trip there is much more intense than what my parents handled in my youth. It involves packing all the same clothes, sunscreen, cameras and accoutrements that they used to pack, plus all the food, bedding, toiletries -- just stuff. And lots of it. We took two cars, an SUV and a minivan, to the beach this time and both were completely full. It's amazing and revolting all at once. D has actually started an Excel chart for a packing list. I don't entirely approve of this, because I like to consider myself a bit more creative and spontaneous than that (i.e., impulsive), but one really can't get in the way of D's logistics. It's like the giant boulder rolling inexorably towards Indiana Jones -- one barely escapes alive.
So now we're back, and back to the routine. I'm glad. I got the inevitable virus -- I always get sick at the end of long vacations -- and work starts up again tomorrow. I'll start waking up at a normal hour, Silvia will be helping with Abby on a normal schedule, we'll be eating normal food at normal times (not pizza, fried whatever, caramel corn or ice cream), and probably drinking a few less cocktails. I'll be glad to get back to a proper skin-care regimen, not including exfoliation by sand, and to messing about on the computer, watching TV, reading books and running errands, not tethered to the group or to one place by the demands of unmitigated mommyhood.
Sometimes those storybook breaks from reality remind you of who you are, though. They can remind you that you once wanted to be a marine biologist, that you love taking a long drive through beautiful scenery for the hell of it or that you aren't all about ticking off daily servings on the Food Pyramid. This week on the Ocean City boardwalk, I rode the first screamingly vertiginous amusement park ride since my neck surgery. It was called the Freakout (unfortunately), and it was really great. You sit in this sort of claw-like thing; the floor drops beneath you and then the whole contraption spins and swings and swoops around until, at its zenith, you are perpendicular to the ground. I screamed, I held on tight, I grinned at the sick looks on my friends' faces on the ground. I was a little scared, but I could tell that the swoopy motion wasn't dangerous to my neck, so I just let the elation wash over me and laughed at the view of upside-down trees and the top of the distant Ferris Wheel -- things I hadn't seen in many, many years. When I got off the ride, I almost fell down. Not from dizziness, but from the shock to my system of a good old jolt of pure adrenaline. My hands shook and my knees wobbled for a few minutes, and then I was fine. More than fine. I couldn't wipe the grin off my face, and I didn't want to. I really felt like me.
There was a crooked mom and she walked a crooked mile;
She rode a crooked roller coaster then had a crooked smile.
