A Day At the Beach

Are we having fun yet? I think I’m doing everything right. The three-hour drive only took four hours. My postage stamp of beach is staked out and blanketed. Soda and Kool-Aid float in tepid water in the cooler. Beach towels, bathing suits, balls, umbrellas, goggles, fins, chips, hats, sun block, sand toys, lawn chairs, and Solarcaine are near at hand. I know, you see, because I carried them across every damn inch of a quarter mile of burning sand while the kids chased seagulls and picked Cheetos off the ground. Are we having fun yet? Sand has invaded personal spaces even my gynecologist hasn’t seen. My hair has twisted itself into Rasta locks, saltwater style, and I can actually see the freckles exploding like popcorn. I lie down. I open a book. I am promptly surrounded. “Mommy, it’s hot. We want to go home.” Are we having fun yet?