I didn't know the severity of my stress until we took a vacation. For six weeks, I'd been helping plan a getaway with three of Cowboy's oldest friends, Casanova, Daphne, and Paige, and their parents, Flower, Tommy, and Ginger, respectively. The kids’ annual camp had been cancelled - also cancelling the once-a-year break Flash and I get from parenting – and we all needed an extended change of scenery and time together. So, when Tommy suggested we rent a beach house for several days, we were all on board.
Now, I've never been a beach person; I’ve been a lake person. Beaches brought memories of driving home on that long stretch of Old Galveston Road, with sunburned skin and sand in places God never intended it to go. It was misery; I was the World’s Largest Sand Crab. I’m sure sand was the greatest problem for the Israelites as they wandered in the desert for 40 years. Four decades of sand in their shoes, in their tents, in their loincloths, in their teeth. Ugh.
During my previous 40 years, I'd been to a beach about 10 times, including Miami Beach, the Bahamas, and the Jersey Shore. Those out-of-state beaches were clean, but my memories of Galveston consisted of tar, jellyfish, and piles of seaweed on the sand, and water that smelled dirty. It had improved some over the years, especially after Hurricane Ike, but I couldn’t shake those dirty thoughts. Other than the sound of waves, I never understood the allure of the beach, and was never destined to be a beach bum.
Until last week.
After multiple food discussions with Tommy, four grocery curbside pickups in three days, and packing way too much just-in-case food, Cowboy and I were ready to meet Tommy and Daphne at the beach house; Flash would join us after work. The traffic was nonexistent, as we escaped reality at a reasonable speed. I’d had a wreck the week before, so I was experiencing post-wreck-caution all the way there. When we turned off 61st street to head further to West Beach, businesses gave way to a long stretch of road with nothing but homes, green grass swaying in the breeze, and a blue sky. When the speed limit slowed to 45 miles per hour, we got a good look at those raised houses, and I may have, as Flash says, “Drooled myself a little bit.” Suddenly, I wanted to repaint our house; sea foam green, buttercup yellow, sky blue, lilac, teal, and Cope Code blue made for a gorgeous landscape.
As we neared the beach house, Cowboy and I stopped for some bags of ice. Which, of course, resulted in a fifty-six dollar charge. Every time we take a trip, regardless of how near or far from home, we must have the obligatory stop at a convenience store to buy drinks, snacks, and trip gifts for ourselves. This time it was a “Don’t Mess with Texas” boogie board for Cowboy and a “Life’s a Beach” big, floppy hat for me. Then, it felt like we were officially on vacation.
It was easy to find our home away from home – the purple house stood out among the other homes. Thankfully, my Cowboy is a strong young man, and was able to help me unload the two-thirds of our home from our van. Waiting for Flash to arrive was too much for Cowboy; he was ready to swim immediately.
Prior to our trip, we’d learned that the community pool usually available was closed due to Covid. I was devastated for Cowboy. And, admittedly, for me.
“Oh no. What are we going to do?” I’d asked Tommy, who’d been the bearer of bad news. “Can we ask if we can have private entrance, as Airbnb customers?”
Sometimes desperation breeds arrogance; somehow I thought, in the entire state of Texas, that we needed an open pool more than anyone else.
Tommy, who does not have a child with autism born with gills, responded, “I don’t see what the big deal is. Why do we have to have a pool at the beach? We have the beach.”
“Oh no,” I explained. “The pool is clean water. We’re not sticking our heads under that water in Galveston. Ewww.” I pictured seaweed-covered jellyfish invading us en masse. “And swimming in a pool calms Cowboy; I think it’s the deep pressure. I don’t know if Cowboy will enjoy the Gulf as much as a pool.” But we couldn’t cancel our reservation. Not over a pool. And we wouldn’t get a refund if we changed to a different location, which probably also had a closed pool. And the purple house had a wonderful covered porch where we could all hang out. Many of the other homes had porches with no shade - unthinkable on a July afternoon.
But when Tommy and I took the kids to the beach that first day, Cowboy was in the waves in less than two minutes. Before I could look for tar. Or sharks. Or octopi. Or Dory. Poor Cowboy was a bit apprehensive after my, “Don’t be afraid; be aware” speech about looking for sharks while we swam. “Keep looking for a fin,” I said, adding to his emotional scarring.
But Jaws was soon forgotten, as my Water Baby jumped into wave after wave, face first. I just prayed the water was clean. Then, to second guess God, I walked over and smelled the water. It smell like salt water. Go figure. And there was no trash, seaweed, jellyfish. Nothing. Not even a sea urchin waiting to stab an unsuspecting foot, as happened to my brother, Doc, on our trip to Jamaica when I was four. Four – an age that would bring no recollection of our beautiful trip. But I’ll save my bitterness for another day.
When Flash arrived, the boogie board lessons commenced, although I tried to explain that Cowboy liked riding against the waves rather than on top of them. Soon, Cowboy was going both ways, laughing the entire time. Covid, and the world, were a trillion miles away.
The next morning brought more beach time, and soon Casanova and Flower, and Paige and Ginger arrived. The four kids were laughing and smiling until I thought their faces would freeze that way. It was bliss. Nobody was arguing. Or whining. Or unhappy. And all was well on the beach. At least on the outside.
But on the inside, I didn’t feel myself. In the past, when our family would drive beyond the Houston city limits, I’d feel a huge weight lift off my shoulders. But not this time. We were finally on a group trip after a two-year wait, but my heavy shoulders were still up to my ears.
When I was on the beach and all the parents were there, I was better. But if the kids outnumbered the parents, I felt irritated. When the newness wore off, and the whining or bickering or not listening to parents commenced, I checked out mentally. I was impatient. I didn’t want to watch anyone else’s kids, although we’ve all done that for each other for years. I wanted to be anywhere else, and resentment tried to devour any peace I’d had.
“Something’s wrong with me,” I confessed to Ginger.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The kids get on my nerves. Not just my kid, but other people’s kids. And I love those kids; I treat them like they’re mine. I wasn’t like this before. When it was just me and Flash on the beach with all the kids earlier, I was relieved to hear you were coming right back out to the beach to be with us, because I didn’t want to be responsible for them.”
Rather than being offended, she was compassionate. “It’s because we’ve all been confined to our homes with our own kids so much. We’ve had no breaks. It’s been so hard for all of us.”
I exhaled and felt better. When I lamented to Flower how uptight I was, she said, “It’s because we have more to let go of this time. The whole world is different now.”
That made sense, too. Life is weird. And all the parents were having trouble letting go. It’s always a relief to know I’m not going crazy. Or if I am, to know I’m not alone in it. Our trip was the stuff dreams are made of - swimming, sunning, eating, watching seagulls, being lazy. Even the sand wasn’t irritating me. But other things were. After all those years, I was still a crab on the beach.
Until I was alone on the beach while the others went back to the house.
We’d put up two different canopies to get a reprieve from the sun, something we never did when I was growing up. Why? Was it not cool to have shade? Did a canopy on the beach scream “Wimp” or “Old”? Why didn’t our parents need shade back then? Did they have thicker skin? Probably, in more ways than one. Apparently, shade is the key to staying on the beach for hours without risking heat stroke. When I looked around, young people had canopies, too; we blended in with the younger generation, which never happens. To prevent having to take down everything and set up again after lunch, I gladly volunteered to stay at the beach while the others went back to the house to eat.
It was amazing. Nobody but me in that space. I moved my chair out of that blessed shade, and felt gratefulness and sunshine start to seep in. I dug my toes in the sand, feeling the coolness beneath the surface. I put on that big floppy hat, hung on to one side of it so it wouldn’t blow away, sipped on my cold Coke, and felt freer than I’d felt in a long time. Carole King tunes completed my piece of heaven. I’d needed to be alone and still. The stress was getting better.
The third day, a breath of fresh air blew into our vacation with the arrival of Tommy’s older daughter, Kat, and her boyfriend, Clark. The kids adore Kat, and the other parents want to clone her. She’s a sweetheart – well, until a card game called Hell starts up. Then, the gloves come off, and she’s a shark. When they walked through the door, I heard a resounding, “Kat is here! Kat is here!” On the beach, Clark threw a huge disc back and forth with Cowboy; he was speaking Cowboy’s love-of-sports language. Apparently, we have even more clone material.
That evening, we flew kites, something I hadn’t done in years. Cowboy walked down the beach, his kite floating behind him, as the gang cheered for him. After the sun set, we had a fire on the beach, complete with s’mores.
On our last full day together, I woke up feeling different. More myself. We danced to Motown tunes on the porch, laughing until we could hardly breathe, just enjoying breathing the same air.
I heard Tommy comment, “Ah, we’re finally letting go.”
Our gang was back in full form.
That night, at dusk, Flower looked at me and said, “I feel like I should go lie down in the water.”
“And I think I should watch,” I replied.
She lied down on the wet sand, and waited for the waves to wash over her. Then Ginger followed suit. It was one of those moments in life when you know if you don’t participate, you will always regret it. Now, dear reader, this may not sound like much of a moment. But for me to even think of lying on the beach, salt and grit floating through my hair, is quite monumental. I don’t do gritty hair. I joined the moment, as did Kat. Two generations of women, lying on the wet beach, laughing and squealing like they were eight years old again. It was priceless. We stretched our arms out, then posed with our feet in the air. We had been transformed into mermaids, someone said. As long as I live, I’ll never forget that sense of abandon, without a care in the world. Where no virus existed, and all I felt was love, peace, and patience.
Flash and I danced on the beach, as Clark and Kat had our kids enthralled with glow sticks. When it got late, Tommy offered to take all the kids back to the house so we could have more time. I was hesitant; it was his vacation too. But he seemed up for it. I felt ashamed of myself for my attitude at the beginning of the week, not wanting to be responsible for anyone else’s kid. But I accepted his help.
When we returned to the house, all the kids were tucked in. I’d love to tell you all the mom shenanigans from our trip, but I was warned by one of them, “What happens at the beach house, stays at the beach house.” So I must adhere to The Mom Code.
The next morning flew by as we scurried to pack up and clean. When we said our goodbyes, Flash and Cowboy went straight to Palm Beach Water Park at Moody Gardens, and I drove further east in Galveston to spend two nights with my childhood friend Magellan and her long-time friend Godiva. It would be the first girls’ weekend I’d had in over five years.
The relaxation I’d experienced that last day at the beach house multiplied by infinity, and I vowed to make no decisions for the duration of the weekend. No responsibility, no agenda, no concept of time. We ate out, toured the Moody Mansion, and did a little shopping on the Strand, where I bought three days’ worth of fudge and ate it in less than an hour. Saturday consisted of five and a half hours at a pool that overlooked the beach. A sand-less paradise, although the sandy one is just as fun for me now. Godiva’s mom, Faith, who graciously hosted us at her condo, recommended The Coastal Grill for dinner. I had the best New York Strip I’ve had in years; it melted in my mouth. Sunday was a pajama day, until I returned home that afternoon.
My relaxed state endured for quite a while. Until reality started knocking on the door of my brain. Until the quarantined feeling tried to fight its way in. Before Cowboy, for the first time in 22 years, consistently told me he is sad - about his high school career ending, and his vocational training being on hold. I saw his anxiety growing because he needs a life of structure outside of our home; he wants to work. Because he doesn’t have a constant to-do list like I do, and finishes his chores within an hour each day, being home too much isn’t healthy for him. I must continue to take him out, and to see other people, albeit in a safe way. Time in the community is to Cowboy what my no-responsibilities time is to me.
And so, dear reader, we went to a nearby small beach yesterday. It was raining, but we didn’t care. We fed an entire box of regular Cheerios to the biggest flock of seagulls this side of the Pecos River, as we listened to the waves crash on the rocks. When the rain ended, we went for a short swim at a nearly deserted public pool. When we got home, I climbed into our above-ground pool, by myself for two hours, and let everything go again. Just like on our last day of family vacation in Galveston. Like my girls’ weekend. Any concerns I had, floated away.
I can’t change the world. But I have to be patient with myself, and with Cowboy, and with other people, realizing that we all have “more to let go of now.” Indeed. Some days will be easier, like a day in the water. And some days will be a challenge.
But the key, for me, is to make time for myself, alone, doing something I enjoy. Sometimes, that will happen on a weekend when Flash is home from work. Or at 1:30 a.m., when I wake up and venture to the backyard to find the World’s Loudest Frog, and look up at the stars, like I did early this morning. But most certainly, when all else fails, it will happen when I spread that pile of unused sand in my backyard, lie down on it, and wave my arms in the air as I imagine waves crashing.