Playing hooky

Today W and I abandoned work and summer camp and went to the beach together.  We drove over, him in the back eating jelly beans and reading comic books graphic novels (they’re the same in my world, but the Borders lady looked at me weird when I said comic books), me in the front listening to Mgmt and drinking one of my newly-beloved Doubleshots over Ice (6 shots of espresso, people – you just can’t go wrong with that!!).

For some reason, I felt so happy on that drive – the music up; the sky blue; gorgeous birds of prey doing that cool thing where they just sort of lie there in the sky over the trees, still as if they aren’t moving at all; the prospect of salt water and sand and crabs and jellyfish ahead.  This is the sort of thing I want to leave him with – memories of a childhood full of sunshine and sand and music, hours of time spent having fun together.

It drives E crazy that I don’t have a lot of childhood stories – few dramatic incidents, few moments that really stand out – but I think that’s part of the joy that was my childhood.  There were family dinners every night, summer days at the beach or in the pool, winter evenings sitting around playing Balderdash and drinking tea and laughing, everyone crowded around the kitchen island making our own pizzas….  It was all these tiny, normal, mundane moments that have all blended together into one story – one time we went to the beach, one time we played that game, one time we made pizza.  There is such a safety in that feeling of the days all being the same, in the wash of the hours repeating themselves over and over like waves breaking on the shores.  I want that for my son, too.  I want his wife someday to tease him about his idyllic childhood, and for him to shrug, smile, and toss their kid on his shoulders as they walk on the sand together, hand in hand.