Edgy Mama

I’m not very good at taking vacations.

After the initial release and a couple nights of catch-up sleep, I often get antsy. Luckily, I have the kids to keep me busy, although recently they’ve been so easy. I mean, I still have to throw food together for them, wash their clothes, drive them around, and watch them in the ocean, but, otherwise, they’re pretty self-sufficient. There are whole long hours where they just do their own thang, I just do mine, E-spouse does his, and we barely cross paths even though we’re all in the same house. These would be the same kids who spent the first four years of their lives wrapped around my right leg. To which I contribute my chronic hip pain on that side.

I always know it’s time for me to go home, to abandon rest and relaxation and too much beer for chaos and cleaning and too much beer, when I start dreaming about writing.

Yes, I dream about my laptop, my Solace. I miss the act of writing. I miss my craft, my work, my “what I do.”

I often dream about writing. I’ve written novels, short stories, articles, investigative reports, and blog entries in my sleep for, well, ever. I’ve often wished I could capture some of the words I’ve dreamed, and although I keep a notebook next to my bed, I hardly ever wake myself up and actually write anything in it.

Last night I had dream after dream about writing. I typed out an on-line parenting column about “competitive birthing.” I wrote a short story that was inspired by Neil Gaiman’s Stardust, which I just finished reading. I wrote a couple blog posts for you. And this morning, I was the proverbial horse at the bit, needing to get to my Solace. And to you.

I’m back - with sand ingrained in my scalp, further sun damage to my shoulders, and five extra pounds on my hips consisting mostly of fried shrimp, boiled peanuts, beer, and $10 rum-infused fruit drinkees.

My Dad’s doing well, which is still something of a miracle. I have this simplistic thought loop that runs regularly through my head and sounds something like this: “Dad’s okay. He’s alive. He’s not going to die. At least not soon. Unless, of course, the proverbial bus comes along.”

Do people really get hit by buses? If you did get hit by a bus and die, would people laugh when they heard? Could they help but laugh a little?

So, a few highlights from the beach trip are as follows:

1. My kids can swim! (Well, kind of. I still have to keep a close eye on the boy). They can feed themselves! They understand gravity and the word “no.” They can wipe their own heinies. Success is mine!

I’m still the short order cook, clothes organizer, sunscream applier and “what to do” go to person, but compared to my sisters’ kidlings, mine are amazingly self-sufficient (my boy calls it sunscream–he used to scream every time I put it on his tender skin).

I actually READ on the beach while my kids splashed in the surf, although I did look up pretty regularly to check for sharks, sudden undertows, and tsunamis.

In comparison, my middle sister spent most of her vaca chasing her adorable and energetic two-year-old twins, while my youngest sister carried her sweet but hefty one-year-old around while corralling her four and six-year-olds.

My kids are out of diapers but still too young to drive. Life is good.

2. My BIL introduced me to a loverly concoction: rum and ginger ale with lemon. I don’t know much about rum, but I think it was good stuff. It was a rich golden color and tasted of Jamaican sunshine.

3. My middle sister admitted that she had no clue what my life was like for the first seven years of my girl’s existence. She didn’t get how exhausted I was, why I had to go to bed at 9:00 p.m., why I’d have to leave in the middle of dinner to calm my baby, why I was snappy and irritable and never had time to exercise, take a shower, or read a book. Now she gets it. Twice over.

4. The spa and fitness center rocked. I am now a spa addict–not good news for a family that subsists on the paychecks of a freelance journalist and an environmental consultant (thanks, Mom, for letting me luxuriate!).

My mornings consisted of a short workout on the elliptical machine (each one has a private TV and headphones). Then I’d avail myself of some cold cucumber water and a fresh towel, before heading to swim in a lap pool surrounded by Gothic arches and immaculate landscaping. After stretching, I’d take a dip in the huge, heavenly hot tub, then dive under the shoulder-pounding waterfall.Back in the “locker” room, I’d strip down and hop into the eucalyptus-scented steam room. I’d finish my luxurious workout with a private shower, complete with free flower-scented shampoo, body wash, and conditioner to lather on my bod. Then more cuke water and, perhaps, a Gala apple as I admired the koi pool and fountain on my way out.

I love the Y, but man, this was over-the-top spectacular.

So, what have you guys and gals been up to?

The weather for the end of next week on the east coast of Northern Florida: mostly clear to mostly cloudy. Highs in the mid-70s. Lows in the upper 50s.

Yes, it’s that time again: Book Club Beach Trip!

Above is a photo of me in Puerto Rico, but you get the idea.

For me, BCBT means catching up with old friends, drinking too much beer with the goal of getting B.M. tipsy, playing Rook, and long walks on the beach. It also means reading, eating, and sleeping–all three more than the usual!

For you, BCBT means Ash will prolly post photos of scantily-clad beach babes on the bloggie, and I might make an appearance, albeit not scantily-clad, though my blogging will depend on whether or not wireless has spread beyond the local Taco Bell in the small town near the condo yet.

For E-spouse, BCBT means getting a taste of Mommy organizational, cleaning, and cooking skills (checking backpacks, signing forms, remembering who goes where when, grocery shopping and meal planning, carpools, picking up toys). He does a pretty good job, although I do know that the three hours before I get home are typically devoted to the only cleaning that will happen in the four days I’m away.

For the kids, BCBT means emotional meltdowns punctuated by fun schedule changes, like extra video time after school while E’s working and ice cream every night after dinner.

I’ll be around for a couple more days, just thought I’d warn you.