Blondie at the Beach

By far the most magnificent place I have ever lived is Virginia Beach, Virginia. My time there was very fleeting but I somehow managed to live two blocks from the North End, the non-commercial section of the beach where all the fancy pants people live. Mind you, I am not, nor will I ever be a fancy pants. I wear very normal pants I assure you. I lived in the rundown house neglected by an old couple for thirty years. Hey, don’t judge. It was a fixer upper and I could walk to the beach in minutes and watch the dolphins play in the surf or ride my bike to the best state park in the universe. The boardwalk, although teaming with the ungodly masses, was a mere ten minute bike ride or a minute by car where the best beach front restaurants could be found.

One beautiful June day sporting my new aqua bikini and matching wrap I gathered my things and walked to the beach. I was enjoying the beautifully landscaped spreads of the very wealthy that increased in size and expense as I neared the beach. I was also enjoying the way that I filled out my aqua bikini top, a little extra jiggle in each step. I had my sweet shades on and a wagon full of necessary items.  

When I reached the hot sandy beach I didn’t fail to notice a few looks from fellow beach goers. I strutted my stuff just a little extra and continued to stroll the fifty feet or so to the prime location near the breakers. Unfortunately, I don’t think they were looking at my cleavage, although in my head I’m still going to remember it that way. They were looking from me to my three year old who was about ten feet behind me whining, “It hot. Mommy, it too hot.” While lifting his flip flop clad feet.  

“Come on darling. You’re slowing me down.” I was desperate to get to the water. To put my feet in the cool delicious waves, feel the squish of the wet sand between my toes. Those people probably didn’t know that I’d been itching to get to the beach for over two hours. If you’ve ever taken a toddler to the beach you will know what I’m talking about. I scooped him up, kissed his chubby sun screened cheek and carried him the rest of the way, pulling the wagon and starring down the nay-sayers.

My other precious cargo was my eight month old baby girl whom I had to thank for my additional aqua endowment. She was snuggled safely in her boppy pillow in the wagon. The problem with taking two babies to the beach are too numerous to count but let's start with the timing. You have to be sure everyone has napped and has been fed. Both beautiful blondies need to be put in their bathing suits, one with a swim diaper, slathered in sunscreen that will instantly become a sand magnet upon arrival. Sun hats, extra diapers, snacks, blanket, umbrella, shovel and pail, and drinks are packed. By the time you’re ready you can't help but think, “Is this really worth it?” I was born an optimist so I was sure it would be.

After getting settled the kids have a great time playing in the sand. My baby daughter has never seen sand before and dipped her spit soaked fist into it. She proceeded to put it where everything else ends up, in her mouth. The change of expression from blissful ignorance to pure disgust had me laughing pretty hard. I hoped that the sand I scraped off her tongue did not contain seagull poop, dog pee, or any other unsavory things.

As I sat on the blanket marveling at my son’s adorable chubby form chasing seagulls and snuggling baby girl on my lap, I counted my blessings: How lucky we were to be in such a beautiful place with such relatively little effort. I look longingly at the ocean. It is calling me to frolic in the waves. Certainly not with two short people who can’t swim yet. There is nothing more I want to do than jump through the surf and dive into the cool caress of the saltwater. It will have to wait for another day. After one heavenly hour at the beach, baby girl needs to eat, shorty-boy is doing a special “I gotta go” dance, and so I begrudgingly repack all of our sandy items and cringe at the outdoor shower fiasco that I will have to endure once I reach home.

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