Life's A Beach

LIFE'S A BEACH

In 2011 Paul and I celebrated our 40th wedding anniversary. Our daughters wisely picked up on my heavy-handed hints that such an auspicious occasion should be lavishly celebrated. I didn't mean a party, nor did I want them to send us on a cruise or to a luxury resort. I wanted THEM, all my crew, in one place at one time...for several days.

These girls of mine are masters of resourcefulness and found us the perfect house on a perfect beach for a perfectly wonderful celebration; they even saw to it that we had perfect weather. So enchanted were we all with our "Endless Summer" house in Gulf Shores, Alabama, that we returned the next year, and the next. (Although, you'd think each year was our first if you measured the level of upreparedness and anxiety that permeates our homes the week preceeding each departure).

Two out of the three years  that we have traveled the 700+ miles, something "flukey" has happened to delay our departure. This year a power outage and monsoon-like rains were our cheery send-off. Traffic snarls, so out of place on interstates, seemed to be the norm, and the week's weather forecast was not encouraging. Yet our spirits were as high as our aforementioned level of anxiety. The punks and I had talked for weeks about what we were anticipating...they were all, save baby Cam, old enough to remember last year and were eager to build bigger/dig deeper/swim farther.  I was anxious to once again do some beach running (a thrilling discovery two years ago) and had a whole bag packed with props for "YaYa's First Annual Beach Fun and Games."

We played "Fill the Bucket",

 "Channel Ping-Pong",

"Flip-Flop Frenzy", 

"Target Frisbee",

 and "Indian Kickball".

We hunted treasure,

dug buckets of seashells,

 and buried people up to their necks.

We fished and played in the water.

We roasted marshmallows on a beach fire and lit sparklers and played  baseball with a shovel for a bat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We spent hours trying to get $1 kites to fly

 

 

 

We built sand castles and doll houses (Emily's preference). 

 

We dug halfway to china.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We celebrated Jake's 12th birthday (belatedly)with an "All About Jake" game and Uncle Mo's (early) with cake and blue ice cream and "the-many-faces-of-Uncle Mo" masks. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We crowned a winner of "YaYa's Fun and Games" and had a glow-stick dance party.

 

  

 

 

 We ate meatball subs (a traditional "first night" meal), shrimp and fish caught on the annual "Guys Fishing Trip". We took hundreds of pictures and argued over who would get to hold baby Cam.

 

 

 

 

I'm just sayin'...we had a LOT of fun!

But all those "activities" pale compared to the joy these days afforded me, surrounded by the people I cherish most in all the world. I love, love, love watching my children enjoying their children. I adore watching the cousins bond with each other and their aunts and uncles. My heart skips with delight every time an unexpected moment of humor/insight/gratefulness appears to set another stone in the altar of this place where God and his heaven seems so tangible to me. And I allow myself to think how absolutely divine it would be if this became a rock-solid tradition for us....a place that none of us can imagine forgoing, ever. I can see that seed taking root in the hearts of some of my grandchildren already, a yearning for tradition and a constant in a quickly changing world. Yet I know that tomorrow is guaranteed to no one and circumstances can change in the most unexpected and unwelcome way.  So I will look at my pictures ad nauseum and try not to let my mind go to "What if....?" And I will "remember out loud" those magical days in that, for me, magical place.  I think I can find some little punks to join me in that.

My Emme Girl

 

 

 

I have six grandsons, but only one granddaughter....which makes it pretty much a fair fight. Her two older brothers were no match for her whatsoever, so we brought in reinforcements by producing four more boys; should they learn to act in unison, they might have a chance.

 

What a surprise her full head of (wild) black hair was to all of us when our girl emerged that February morning! Never before nor after has a grandchild appeared with anything more than a bit of fuzz atop his head. Her mother, Aunt Molly ("Sissy") and I couldn't wait to adorn her in bows ("The bigger the bow, the better the mama") and we changed her clothes so often in the hospital that the nurses would drop by just to see the outfit of the hour. We got used to each new hospital worker we encountered commenting on her "crown of glory" but were caught off guard when one asked, innocently enough, if her father was Hispanic or Asian....a supposition made only the more hilarious since her father has WASP written all over him!

I have spent a considerable time in my "YaYa" years observing and analyzing each of my grandchildren. Like most grandmothers I looked for signs in these little ones, that I adore beyond measure, of my own children (which, when found, both reassure and concern me), as well as those qualities that make each uniquely his/her own person. Stereotypically, I marvel over their cuteness and cleverness, and take tremendous pride in their accomplishments.  Bias aside, I would like to think I have a pretty fair "handle" on most of them ("That one will be a great father"; "This one will be a worrier"; "He's halfway to 'frat boy' already"). But Miss E.....NO  CLUE!   She's alternately marvelous or maddening, darling or dangerous, naughty or nice with a capital "N"! An enigma to say the least, is our girl, a conundrum...a contradiction at every turn.

When this girl was just a wee thing , not yet two, her mother had to be hospitalized with the troubled pregnancy of child number four, who turned out to be our charming Zach. One Sunday morning Emme's mommy walked out of the house and into the hospital and there remained for more than two months. There was no possible way this toddler, so dependent on her mother as all toddlers are, could begin to understand or process such an assault on her security. And although all of us tried our hardest to "fill the gap", there was no way in hell that was going to happen; not Daddy nor brothers nor YaYa were going to make that event okay. We wonder if trust or anger "issues" were birthed then within this complicated combination of beauty and bossiness, or was she always meant to be a "spicy counterpart" to her more predictable brothers? Whichever... a force to contend with is she, though if  "contending" implies "confronting", I'd rather not. She proved long ago that she'll go for broke to defend her position, regardless of how untenable it might be.   This girl  will probably  set the world on fire one day because there will be no deterring her from whatever path she decides to follow; ain't nobody gonna change this child's mind about anything! The only thing I know for sure is that this one, my only girl, I cannot figure out...and it's driving me crazy!

It makes me nuts that she is so stingy with her affections (though I will never stoop to begging). Often she doesn't give me the time of day. I am kept from being totally distressed by this withholding only  because I know I am not singled out; she's an equal-opportunity shunner. It's my prayer that in the years to come she keeps male pursuers at arms length as easily as she does the people who have legitimately earned her hugs.

But when she does flash her smile in your direction it's electric and you'd forgive her anything. Unfortunately, I think she already knows this and uses it. Frequently. Combine that with dark, dark eyes that can flash with delight as well as anger...there's a heart breaker!  And while she would just as soon hit you as look at you, she has an incredibly strong nurturing side....she's the first to offer comfort and succor to whomever is hurt (assuming she hasn't inflicted "the hurt"); she does a better job than almost anyone at calming her younger brother's meltdowns. And, oh! How she loves babies! 

Her baby dolls, most named "Emily" (she hasn't taken exception with her name yet, but I am sure it's just a matter of time) bear the marks of  her "affection". However, she has made it perfectly clear that it's REAL babies she is most interested in. Noticing an infant in a stroller who's mother had stepped a few feet away to examine something in a store, Emily once asked her mom, with all sincerity, "Can we take that one?" And when her newest cousin was born just 3 short months ago, she announced that she was more than willing to take care of him should Sissy and Uncle Mo care for a night out. You know what? She could do it.

Em has grown up surrounded by boys and takes them on willingly and fearlessly. Yet she yearns for the company of other little girls whom she treats almost reverentially, deferring to them and guarding them.  We were all taken aback  at one of her soccer games when it happened that, though she played on a mixed team, there were only girls on the field. Her usual aggressive, competitive style was suddenly and inexplicably non-existent and she hung back. When her mother quarried her about this atypical behavior she answered that "she didn't want the little girls to get hurt"! Try as she might, her mother couldn't convince her that  she should play them exactly as she would the boys.

Some girls are just born with glitter in their veins. Emily has always had a very strong fashion sense and changes her clothes more times in a day than you can count. She ONLY wants to wear dresses and skirts (thus making soccer and any other activity that requires shorts or pants distasteful). And the higher the "twirling factor" of those skirts the better! She is also quite clear that she likes bling: if it sparkles, it's a winner. Thus, her propensity for costumes: princess, fairy, ballerina.....they are not only preferred, but appropriate for any and all occasions, according to our young miss, and often to her father's dismay.

And her hair? "I like it long and loose" is the reply you'll get should you suggest that pulling all or part of it back or up might be in order when you observe her pushing it back from her face for the sixteenth time in an hour. Naturally, she forsook the wonderful bows YEARS ago. And in what has come to be know as "The Hair Event of 2011" our independent little miss...you guessed it....cut her hair herself. Sorry, I misspoke. She didn't "cut" her hair....she scalped, butchered, destroyed.....it was bad. The lengths we went to make her presentable for family pictures, weddings....well, they are stuff of which blogs are written.

Recently I spent the morning playing lifeguard while all but my infant grandson swam so their mothers could work uninterrupted on a project. Emily started out with her winning ways, asking me to please help her work on her dives.  All went well for at least an hour. But, you know, with 6 kids, the majority 3 and 5 and none over 11, well, things break down. And before long she was mad. Someone had "done her wrong'. She put on her angry face, stormed off (couldn't go farther than the patio though since no one was allowed inside) and "made her stand".  Here mother thinks she impulsively backs herself into a corner and then can't think of a way to get out and still save face. I say she marches dead ahead into that corner and then dares anyone to "cross the line". And she proved long, long ago that she was willing to sacrifice life and limb to hold her position. Not only does she "take no prisoners" she is determined not to be taken alive, if it comes to that. Forget cajoling, bribing, distracting...even wrestling and strong-arming have proven fruitless except for the biggest and strongest of us (or should I say strongest and bravest). Heck, the child takes karate! I'm not sure if it was a stroke of genius or stupidity to teach her a combat skill.

But I digress. I tried to "happy her up" using all the useless techniques I knew and eventually began to croon,
               "There was a little girl,
                 Had a little curl,
                 Right in the middle of her forehead;
                 And when she was good,
                 She was very, very good
                 And when she was bad she was horrid."

I thought I saw the quickest of flashes in those dark eyes early on in the rhyme No smile of course. No dropping of the angry face or softening of the stance. Still....soooo, I repeated it in even more of a sing-songy manner. Now I had her next oldest brother (with whom she has the most "complicated" sibling relationship) joining in. "What's 'horrid' mean?" he asked. Quickly running through all the  permanently scarring child psychology warnings I could recall, I decided the truth would have to do: "It means 'horrible', I said.  The next time through the chant I deliberately paused after "And when she was bad..." and Emily finished my sentence. "...a hurricane?" she asked. Yes, Emily, exactly. "And when she was bad she was a hurricane."

 Okay little Princess, guess we're going to put up with a hurricane now and again, because, Beloved Girl, we are addicted to  your sunshine. So there. Take that!


               
                                 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All Men Are Scum...

My dad had a rather unsettling (and unflattering) habit of dividing people into two basic groups:  they were either "Salt of the earth", or "Scum of the earth". The latter group far exceeded the former, although the two groups could be somewhat fluid; any guy I was dating fell into the "scum" category until he was history. Then, he was somehow inexplicably promoted to the first, it seemed, when Dad would wistfully ask, "Whatever happened to that _____boy?"

 

When my own daughters began to have interactions with young males who would disappoint/hurt/betray them, my attempts to comfort/reassure/educate them found me ultimately using a word or two that suggested these "creatures" were less than honorable; possibly even a lower life-form. I might even have used the word "scum" once or twice. I may also have suggested, should their deeds be especially grievous, that death would be a reasonable punishment.

 

After a few seasons of first Amy, and then Molly, learning to negotiate said relationships, including lessons on "managing expectations" (read that, "not be totally devastated by some stupid stunt or other"), a "Family Motto" evolved. In it's final, most concise form it professed,  "All men are scum and deserve to die". It wasn't formulated all at once, but evolved, and it wasn't spoken the first time in a fit of rage or with anyone holding an object that if swung or hurled would possibly cause bodily harm.

 

We were sitting at the dinner table one night, the four of us, when Molly recounted something some bone-headed junior high boy had done that left her feeling less than great about herself and, apparently, disenchanted with the entirety of the male population. I am not exactly sure what I was intending to convey to her as I looked across the table, but she held my gaze, sighed and said with sadness and resignation, "I know...all men are scum."  A heartbeat later Amy continued, "And deserve to die." "The Motto" was born.

 

Suddenly, remembering that we were in the company of one who sported the "y" chromosome and might possibly take offense at this declaration, Molly quickly added, "Except for OUR daddy!"  "No", Paul began a few long seconds later, "I'm scum, too." Without leaving our seats, we three females were mentally hugging his neck and smothering him with kisses, I am certain. Probably every trespass/disappointment/thoughtless act he had ever visited upon any of us was instantly forgotten.

 

Yes, our "motto" is a harsh/cruel/outlandish over-generalization. Yet we make no apologies. It is a reminder of one of those serendipitous moments when a bond is forged, a relationship is strengthened, a memory is made. So we will continue to say it, albeit tongue-in-cheek, because we are too fond of the warm-fuzzy that accompanies it's utterance to abandon it, lest we offend. In fact, I have actually been know to try to justify it to some who would take exception by remarking, that this is, after all, a scriptural truth:  "All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God".  (A rather loose interpretation, granted, but I think a case can be made....)

A few of my friends are fond of collecting what they call "Debby-isms" and this one is right at the top of their list. (Right behind it is "I know what sex, drugs and alcohol all smell like. Don't come home smelling liking any of them."  But that's a blog for another day....) I cringe when I hear them spouting this particular one to  others and usually want to jump in to do "damage control"; obviously it doesn't evoke in others the same warm feeling  that it does for us. Yet, on the upside,  it  give me the chance to "remember out loud" one of my favorite stories...