The good ol' days...

A few things from my childhood that my children will probably never experience:

• Dropping a roll of film off at the drugstore and anxiously waiting for almost two weeks to get the pictures back so you could see if any of them turned out good.
• Walking to the nearest little store (for us it was Paul's Superette) with a quarter and being able to buy licorice sticks, Bazooka bubble gum, hot balls, and Mary Janes (I think at the time they were $.03 a piece). (Of course, Paul knew all of us kids (and our families before we were born) so maybe he gave us a little extra!)
• Saturday morning cartoons. Other than that the only thing on for kids was Sesame Street, The Electric Company, Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, and Zoom.
• A television that had no remote and only received the local ABC, CBS, NBC and PBS affiliates.
• Having to stay in one general area when talking on the phone because the phone had a cord.
• A phone that actually "rings".
• Not knowing who was on the phone until you answered it.
• Life without answering machines and home voice mail.
• Riding in a car with no air conditioner.
• St. Joseph's Baby Aspirin - I never had anything else as a child!
• Having to use a payphone if you were away from home and needed to make a call.
• A world without AIDS, domestic terrorism, cyberstalking, identity theft - I could go on but I'm depressing myself.

I'm glad I was a kid back then.

Simple pleasures, part two

On the afternoon of the day a couple of weeks ago when we went strawberry picking Kylie decided she wanted to go blueberry picking. Our backyard used to be filled with wild blueberries which grew on little plants close to the ground. Unfortunately they all fell victim to my husband's weed wacker. He decided that the backyard would look nicer "cleaned up", that is to say, devoid of any natural growth other than grassy type stuff, so he wacked the blueberry plants. While there are still blueberries on our property they are farther away from the house and harder to find. That particular day Robbie took the kids for a bike ride. They went over to the neighborhood adjacent to ours and Kylie rode out a dirt path that goes to a huge field. It was out there that she found, in her words, "a ton of blueberries".

For the next week she begged us to take her back to the trail to pick blueberries. Finally on Saturday evening after dinner I agreed. Armed with a walkie talkie to keep in touch with Robbie who was staying home to water, bug spray, and two buckets, we set out with Kylie and Phillip on their bikes and Bella in her stroller. It only took us about five minutes to get to the trail. Kylie rode ahead of us while we parked Phillip's bike at the edge of the woods, training wheels don't work very well on a rough dirt trail. We bumped and stumbled our way out the long, dark, trail to the end where it opened up to a huge green field. Kylie was standing by her bike, motioning with great excitement at the ground around her "look Mom, look, a ton of blueberries!!". It was instantly apparent to me that Kylie's definition of "a ton" and mine were vastly different. Still, the picking was pretty good and if we all pitched in I figured we should be able to get the two cups needed for muffins.

Within a couple of minutes it was obvious that we would need the bug spray that I had brought, so I pulled it out and sprayed us all. Since Bella is too little to be sprayed I covered the cloth diaper I had brought with spray and put it on top of the stroller in hopes it would keep the bugs away. We had been picking for about five minutes when Kylie said "gee Mom, don't your knees hurt from bending down like that? Mine do." Phillip was walking around saying "there sure are a lot of blueblerries here Mom, there sure are" (no, that's not a typo, he really calls them "blueblerries"!). My mantra quickly became "less talkie, more pickie", as I deposited handful after handful of berries into each of their buckets (which were not filling at a very fast rate). I probably could have picked faster, but the kamikaze deer flies were apparently attracted by the remnants of the hairspray I had applied that morning and I had to keep stopping to wave my hands frantically around my head to dispel them. Finally in an act of sheer desperation I sprayed bug spray on my hands and ran them through my hair - if you know me at all you know I had to be desperate to do that! It worked though, the little pests stopped dive bombing my head and I was able to concentrate more on picking.

After about twenty-five minutes Bella was starting to get fussy and I had picked my fill of blueberries. I suggested we walk just a little further out into the field to see if we could pick a few more berries before heading home. Prior to doing that I had to bounce Bella for a few minutes to get her to sleep. Once she was comfortably slumbering in her stroller we moved on. Unfortunately Kylie decided it would be a good idea to hang her bucket from the handlebar of her bike, which she managed to drop when she was trying to get on it. There were twenty five minutes worth of blueberries scattered all over the dusty, sandy, trail. Poor Kylie was devastated, but fortunately we were able to salvage most of the blueberries. We did go a little deeper into the field and pick a little longer, which probably made up for the blueberries that were lost in the sand.

The whole time we were picking blueberries Kylie and Phillip kept wrapping themselves around my legs, thanking me for taking them to the blueberry field, and proclaiming me "the best Mommy in the whole world". That was sweeter than any blueberry we picked that evening. We ended up picking two cups of blueberries, just enough to make one giant batch of blueberry muffins. The muffins were yummy but were gone in a few days, the joy that my children (and because of them, I) experienced doing something as simple as picking blueberries (or "blueblerries", depending on the child!) will last much longer than that.

(Stay tuned for "Simple pleasures, part three - adventures in apple picking" no doubt to be published in a blog near you sometime in September...)

Waving

My family has many rituals. Among them, calling to sing "happy birthday" to the birthday person on their special day (which is usually amusing since most of us can't carry a tune in a bucket!), gathering on Christmas Eve afternoon at my parent's house to open one present each, doing a shot at family parties as a toast to whomever isn't present (and if everyone is there we can usually find another excuse, dearly departed relatives work well since my Mom's family was a fun-loving, partying bunch), and waving. It doesn't matter if your trip will take you across town or across the country, whenever you leave the house of someone in my family, somebody always stands in the door or at the window and waves.

Growing up I thought that every family waved when someone left. As I got older I became increasingly aware that it was not the norm for people to do that. Most of my friends were shocked when we would leave my house and my parents would be in the window waving. "Geez", they would say, "do they think you're not coming back?". In a way I think that's how this particular ritual began. My Mom said that in her family someone always waved good-bye, and her Mom said it was because you never know when someone leaves if they will be coming back, so it's nice to share a parting wave as they go.

The waving ritual that for me began in my parent's house now lives on in our home. Whenever somebody leaves Kylie and Phillip race for either the door or window to wave. It doesn't matter if the person departing is a family member, friend, construction worker, or UPS driver, they all get a wave. From time to time people who don't know us that well will depart without glancing at the house to see the two little blonde children waving frantically and blowing kisses. They don't know what they're missing.

This morning as I left my parent's house after dropping off the kids I drove slowly past the front door with my arm out the window waving. My little waving committee did not disappoint, they were gathered in the front door of the house, with Kylie and Phillip in front and my Mom in back holding Bella. All of them were waving and blowing kisses with radiant smiling faces, it was such a beautiful sight it made my heart ache.

Ouch!

At the tender age of three months it has become imperative to Bella that she not miss a thing while tending to the most tedious but necessary of tasks - nursing. With that in mind she will now, without warning, clamp what can only be described as jaws of steel onto my breast then whip her head around to see what's happening on the other side of the room, attempting to take my nipple with her. When I let out a surprised wail of pain she releases the nipple and grins up at me with toothless, wide-eyed innocence (or is that amusement?). I'm thinking of having little blinders and earplugs made for her...

Vi and Letty

Last fall my mother, sister, and I went to a perennial swap at my brother and sister-in-law's house. It was a hot Sunday afternoon and that was about the last thing I felt like doing. Robbie had just left that morning on a week-long business trip, the next day was Monday so it was back to work, back to school for Ky, back to our busy lives but with just me at home to do everything. The thought of going to a perennial swap and bringing home yet another thing that needed to be cared for was not even remotely appealing. Like there was even a chance that I would get to plant whatever I brought home before it died! But, being the good little sister that I am I dug up some pieces of my perennials to contribute, made my platter of peanut butter cups, loaded the kids into the van and went on my merry way.

It was early in my pregnancy with Bella, and since we hadn't told anyone yet I politely accepted the Sangria that Gail, my sister-in-law, offered. After a few tiny sips I was able to sit the cup down discreetly on the table and abandon it there. Despite my reluctance to go, the time passed quickly and it was a nice afternoon. The kids had fun jumping on the trampoline with their cousins and eating all the good food that Floyd and Gail had prepared. I had a nice time hanging out and talking with my family and Gail's friends. As the gathering started to wind down Gail decided it was time for people to pick what they wanted to take home for perennials. I hung back, determined to leave empty handed. While I was happy to contribute a plant, I really had no desire to take one home. As far as I could tell it would just be another thing on my "to-do" list, which was the last thing I needed that week.

As the swap was winding down Gail was surveying who got what, and said "Hey Eed, you didn't get anything, here, take this" (note: "Eed" rhymes with weed and is what most of my family calls me) and attempted to hand me what looked like some half dead weed in desperate need of tender loving care. I politely declined, citing my already long enough "to-do" list and traveling husband as the reason I had chosen to leave empty handed. Gail, however, was determined that nobody would leave empty handed. She finally insisted that I at least take an african violet as it was already potted and wouldn't require much attention at all. Since it meant so much to her I took the plant, figuring it was little so it wouldn't take up much room in the trash, which, given my history with african violets, is where it would inevitably end up.

On the way home my wonderful Mom insisted that I also take the african violet that had been pressed upon her, citing her penchant for killing the poor unsuspecting houseplants as well. I couldn't stand the thought of watching these innocent plants wither and die at home, so I placed each of them in a Winnie-the-Pooh mug and took them to work (at least that way I would only have to witness their suffering three times a week). Once we got to my office I placed them on the windowsill and enjoyed the beautiful purple flowers that had opened soon after I got them. Each week I would water them, looking carefully for signs of their impending doom. All through the winter they sat on my windowsill, even on the days when it was below zero outside and the windows had ice on the inside.

While the plants didn't die, neither did they thrive. They appeared to be just surviving, in some sort of african violet limbo, their leaves getting bigger and less green by the month. Finally about a month ago I decided they looked sickly enough that it was time to end their suffering. I removed them from my windowsill, and as I started to take them out of the Winnie-the-Pooh mugs that had been their homes I was amazed. There, in the center of each plant were healthy looking new green leaves. Even more amazing, hidden in the midst of the leaves were little buds that held the promise of producing more beautiful purple flowers. In an effort to let the plants direct all their energy to the promising new growth I pinched off the big yellowed leaves around the outside and placed them back in window.

Now my windowsill is the proud home of Vi and Letty and their gorgeous blooms. They each boast at least a dozen brilliant purple flowers, most of which are as big around as quarters. The darned plants are beautiful, and I'm hooked. Despite my best intentions I did come away from the swap with something else to care for, something else to care about. Now that I have sustained the plants and watched them bloom again I want them to live, to continue blooming, to keep being another thing on my "to-do" list.

Happy birthday, dear hubby

Today is my dear hubby's birthday. It's hard to believe that the sweet faced 16 year old boy I fell in love with is turning 34. It seems like just yesterday that my heart would skip a beat at the very sight of him across the kitchen in the restaurant where we both worked. It's probably a good sign that it still skips a beat when he walks in the house at the end of the day. He is my best friend, the person with whom I would most like to just hang out. The sound of his voice on the other end of the phone when he calls from work just to say hi brings a smile to my face. While he likes to thump his chest and pretend that he's a tough guy, he's really a softie with a heart of gold. I'm lucky to have him for my husband, and my children are lucky to have him for their father.

Don't get me wrong. It's not always hearts and flowers. There are times when I'm screaming at him on the inside, but I seldom let the screams escape my lips. For all the times he irritates, annoys, and otherwise pisses me off beyond belief, there are one hundred more times that he brings me flowers or candles "just because", vacuums the house or does the laundry, fills my van with gas so I don't have to, cooks dinner, and just plain makes me laugh when I need it most. He is the love of my life.

For his birthday this year there was nothing that he wanted. I wracked my brain trying to come up with some gift to get him, but I came up empty. We had his party this past weekend, so tonight is just a homemade cake shared with the kids. I was going to buy him another card, but decided to write this instead. Happy birthday Robbie, I love you, and I hope this coming year is filled with love, laughter, and lots of good times.

Simple pleasures

About this time every year the roads around our house are all marked with signs with a giant strawberry, the words "u pick", and an arrow. In the eight strawberry seasons we've lived here we have never, in spite of our good intentions, gone strawberry picking. This year Kylie asked if we could pick strawberries. I gave her the classic non-commital "we'll see", while trying to wrap my brain around strawberry picking with a six year old, three year old, and three month old. I didn't figure Robbie would be interested in accompanying us, and I wasn't sure I was brave enough to venture into the strawberry fields alone.

On Sunday we were returning home from a visit to my sister's house where we met her new dog. Upon seeing one of the strawberry signs Rob said "if I could take just Kylie I would go pick some strawberries, but I'm sure I couldn't get out without Phillip and I don't know how he would do". Being the eternal optimist and blessed (or is that cursed?) with a "can-do" attitude, I replied that we should just go right then, all of us. After all, there were two of us, Bella would stay sleeping in her car seat (with the little canopy pulled over her to shield her from the sun), and how long could it really take? He looked at me with a mix of skepticism and amusement as he headed for the strawberry fields.

Kylie and Phillip were both thrilled when we pulled into the parking lot of the strawberry farm. Kylie's excitement was somewhat tempered as she exited the car and inhaled "ewwww, what's that smell?" she asked. Her Dad informed her that it was "poo" otherwise known as manure, ahhhh, the sweet smells of life on a farm! Since they had been open for picking for about a week the lady suggested we head towards the back of the fields and assured us we would find plenty of berries there. We grabbed our containers and dutifully marched down the dusty aisle to the back of the field, where little red berries could be seen peeking out from under big green leaves.

After about ten minutes scooched down in the summer sun Kylie informed us she was hot and her knees hurt from bending to pick the berries. Hubby and I were telling Phillip for the fiftieth time to stop walking over the rows and stepping on the berries (I only had to tell him once that he couldn't sit on them!), and Bella was starting to wake up. Robbie had filled one of the six quart containers we had purchased, mine was about two-thirds full, and Kylie's had six berries in it. Phillip had long since abandoned his container, and instead would pick a berry, run to Rob or me and say "is this one good?", and put it in our container (that accounts for all the unripe and overripe berries). Despite the fact that I had seen plenty of faces smeared with strawberry juice as we trekked through the rows, I told Kylie and Phillip they had to wait until we got the berries home and washed to try them. I suspect that my aversion to them eating things fresh from the dirt and potentially still bearing traces of the pesticide du jour can be attrituted to my "quirkyness", but I'll blame it on my Mother.

Given the less than efficient picking skills of our two little helpers Robbie said he was glad that I had decided against staying in the van with Bella as I had originally planned. He would have been out there awhile trying to fill six containers by himself. Finally, after about thirty minutes, (the last ten of which consisted of me picking for a few minutes, then swinging Bella in her seat as she had woken up and was not exactly thrilled to find herself sitting in the middle of a strawberry field), we had our six quarts of strawberries.

We traipsed back towards the little shack to pay for our haul, triumphant in having gathered such wonderful fruit. Kylie and Phillip, both sporting fingers stained with berry juice, thanked us for the rest of the day for taking them strawberry picking. The berries, once properly washed, were proclaimed to be the best strawberries ever. Next year when the strawberry signs go up I know we'll be heading for the strawberry fields again, to take part in one of life's simple pleasures.

Dinner talk

• Hot dogs - $3.69
• Milk - $3.39
• Cantaloupe - $1.50
• Cheetos - $3.29
• Hearing your 3 year old ask his father (with total innocence and great concern): "Daddy, did Kylie not want more Cheetos because she's pissed off?" - Priceless

Party time

Bella and I were the first ones up this morning. Everyone else was recovering from the party we had last night which didn't break up until almost 11:00. We had the pleasure of hosting thirteen members of my family as we celebrated the birthdays of my dear husband (34th) and brother (51st). The day and night before the party were full of activity as we cleaned the house (a "company" clean versus the normal "family" clean) and prepared the food - buffalo chicken bites, scallops wrapped in bacon, homemade salsa & guacamole, spinach & artichoke dip, and fresh fruit. When you add that to the devilled eggs, nachos, beef bulgogi, and mini hot dogs in sauce that other family members contributed I think we can rest assured that nobody left here hungry. Oh, I almost forgot the most important food - the birthday cakes! We usually order all the birthday cakes for the family from the same guy who made my wedding cake thirteen years ago (that was actually for our renewal of vows ceremony, we had already been married for one and a half years - another post for another day!), but I wanted to do something different this time. I made two brownie bottomed cheesecakes, and for those family members who don't like cheesecake (incomprehensible to me, but I know for 0ne my dear Kylie doesn't) I made a whoopie pie cake. As it turns out most everyone was so fascinated by the whoopie pie cake that even those who had cheesecake wanted a little slice of that to accompany it.

I absolutely love family parties. It helps that we have such a great family. We all live within about ten minutes of each other and there is no better time to be had then when we all gather together. Our house was loud last night, filled with conversation and laughter, the giggling shrieks of children (mine) as their older cousins chased and tickled them (and pleas of "tickle me again, tickle me again!!" as soon as they stopped), Bella's coos as she realized with delight that she had a larger audience to play to, our house was filled with the sounds of love. The neat thing about our family is we love each other because we're family, but we truly like each other too. Even the "in-laws" that we've picked up along the way fit in nicely. None of them came from families like ours so for each of them there was somewhat of an adjustment period. Now if someone were to walk into one of our parties I'm not sure they could tell the in-laws from the rest of us, we blend together that well.

Some of my best memories from childhood are family parties. My Mom was the youngest of nine children, so there was no shortage of aunts, uncles, and cousins at our parties. My earliest memory from childhood is being at a party in a playpen and my Uncle Joe climbing in with me. I also remember parties held at the restaurant that my Uncle Joe ran for many years where my brothers and my cousins would actually throw me back and forth across the kitchen to each other (I loved every minute of it!) - ahhhh, the good old days! The parties of my youth were like the parties we have now, filled with good natured teasing, laughing, story-telling, and lots of love. I hope that someday my children will look back on our parties and remember them fondly as well

A quirky Mom

My husband called me the dreaded "a" word the other night - "anal". He didn't say it as an indictment, just a passing comment. As much as I hate to admit it, he's probably right. There are certain things that I'm rather, "quirky" about (that sounds so much nicer than anal). For example, I know which color top came with which sippy cup, and it just seems to me that they are a pair. The cup that came with the pink lid (that would be the blue cup with the bumble bees on it) should always have the pink lid on it. That cup does not belong with a blue lid, a purple lid, or a yellow lid, it belongs with a pink lid. I'm sure you can imagine the knot that forms in my stomach when dear hubby gets the ice water ready for the sweet kiddos to take to bed and puts the pink top on the purple cup that came with a purple top. Perhaps in deference to "quirky" moms like me who notice (and are bothered by) such things, the sippy cup manufacturers seem to be putting matching lids on cups lately. Don't even get me started on Tupperware, yes it does matter which top goes on which bowl.

The incident that led to my husbands lovely name for me involved a onesie. Shortly after Phillip was born a friend of ours gave us a set of Winnie-the-Pooh onesies with the days of the week on them. For someone who is, ahem, quirky, things like that send a shiver up the spine. I knew that I would never be able to just grab a onesie and put on him, I would have to make sure it was the correct day. It wouldn't do for him to wear a Friday shirt on say, Tuesday. Nevermind that Phillip was only three months old at the time and could have cared less, I would have been bothered by it all day.

Fast forward a few years to our sweet Bella. It was hot one night last week so I decided to put Bella in a onesie to sleep. It was late and I was tired, so I grabbed a onesie off the shelf of the changing table and put it on her. Of course, it was a "Sunday" shirt, and it was only "Tuesday" night. With great restraint I managed to fight the demons inside of me that were insisting I change the onesie. After all I reasoned, the other kids were in bed, it was just me, hubby, and Bella, who would care? Within ten minutes of putting the onesie on Bella my sweet husband looked at it and said to me with a little grin, "as anal as you are about things I can't believe you don't have the right day on her". That did it. I scoured the changing table shelf, the dryer, the basket of clothes to be put away, the basket of clothes yet to be folded, and finally, finally, I found Tuesday. As I removed Sunday from our little girl and replaced it with Tuesday I was struck by another dilemma. In a few hours it would be Wednesday, so maybe I should be putting Wednesday on her so when she woke up in the morning it would be right? Briefly I considered searching for Wednesday, but instead smacked the little quirky voices in my head back into the shadows, and vowed to do the same to Robbie as well if he dared to suggest such a thing.

The pink balloon

Yesterday we went to a Fourth of July parade. We go to this particular parade every year because my Dad is in it. He is a Shriner, and he drives one of those little yellow Jeeps that buzzes around in circles zipping dangerously close to parade goers toes. There's something about seeing my 79 year old father zooming around in a little vehicle propelled by what amounts to a powerful lawnmower engine (with a jeweled fez on his head, no less) that makes my heart smile.

Much like attending the parade has become a tradition for us, so has buying balloons at the parade for the kids. I watched yesterday as Rob handled the all important balloon buying transaction just a few minutes after we arrived. Kylie and Phillip went with their Dad to pick out which color they wanted, and I stayed with Bella and my Mom. I watched with amusement as I saw my wonderful husband dutifully request a red balloon for Phillip, a pink balloon for Kylie, and another pink balloon for Bella, who usually gets stiffed in situations like this since at the tender age of 2.5 months old she really doesn't care much about balloons. Just as I thought to myself "there, each of my babies has a balloon", one of the pink balloons slipped from Robbie's grasp and floated up into the brilliant blue sky. My chest tightened and my eyes filled with tears as I watched the balloon drift up towards the fluffy white clouds. At that moment it hit me, each of my babies truly did have a balloon, even the one I lost a year ago this week.

I was only five weeks pregnant when I miscarried. Aside from my friends on-line, my husband, and my best friend, nobody knows it ever occurred. Everything happened so fast, ttc for less than a month, a positive pregnancy test, then a mere thirty hours later the beginning of the end. For one short day I knew I was holding another precious baby inside me. It's amazing that you can love someone you only knew for one day, someone you never had the chance to meet or hold in this life.

Through watery eyes I looked at Bella, who arrived one month after the baby that I lost would have been due, and at Kylie and Phillip, both filled with anticipation at seeing Poppa and the rest of the parade. Watching the pink balloon ascend skyward yesterday morning I was filled with love for the baby that I have yet to meet, and for the three that I have.

Fireworks

Fireworks, aside from the displays put on by towns and cities, are illegal in my state. They are, however, legal and easily obtainable just over the border in a neighboring state. Last night we were treated to what was probably one of the best (illegal) fireworks displays around.

My sister-in-law's family owns a camp on a small lake about 45 minutes from where we live. Last year my brother and some members of my sister-in-law's family crossed the border to the neighboring state and bought some fireworks. They invited us to see their display and it was pretty impressive for a private (and illegal) show. Because they purchased them early they were able to take advantage of a two-for-one deal and ended up getting quite a bang for their buck (okay, bad pun but I couldn't resist!). Not only was their display great, but some of the neighboring camps had displays as well, so we enjoyed almost an hour of brilliant flashes and bangs. That night my whole family offered to contribute to the fireworks fund for this year.

Once all the money had been collected there was over $700 in the fireworks fund. My brother and his brother-in-law crossed the border to purchase the illegal goodies. They said the young man at the fireworks store was more than happy to take them around and point out which fireworks would put on the best show. With the two-for-one deal and the freebies that the fireworks place throws in they left there with about $1600 worth of rocket power.

We all arrived at the camp last night around 8:00. There was a fire on the beach where the kids were roasting marshmallows and making s'mores, sparklers, and Kylie's favorite, glow in the dark necklaces and bracelets. At about 9:15 everyone gathered on the little beach area in front of the camp to ooh and aah over the beautiful show in the sky. The fireworks were amazing. There were reds, greens, purples, and golds, starbursts, swirls, flashes, the works. Once again other camps in the area put on shows as well, so we were treated to quite a variety of displays. When the last of the fireworks had left the dock of the camp we were at, the guy a few camps down let loose with his display. Rumor had it that he had $3,000 worth of fireworks this year, and his diplay was impressive to say the least.

The show finally ended around 10:30 and we all piled into the van for the ride home. Since my parents had ridden with us my Mom and I sat in the back with Kylie. On the ride home through winding, dark country roads Rob and my Dad chatted, Phillip and Bella slept, and Kylie and I kept my Mom entertained by singing along with the country tunes on the radio (we really rock on Brooks & Dunn's "Play Something Country"!). It was a nice evening, and, I suspect, the beginning of another family tradition.

A perfect day

My Mom, the kids, and I slathered our pasty bodies with sunscreen this morning and headed to the beach for the first time this year. The duck itch (or duck scratch, as Phillip called it) is gone. The sun was shining, the air was warm, and there was just enough of a breeze to keep us comfortable. It was a perfect day.

Today was special not only because it was our first visit to the beach this year, but also because it was Bella's introduction to the beach. By all indications she loved it. I received a small beach cabana at the Welcome Bella party my family had in May and it is just right. When we first got to the beach I sat Bella in the cabana in her carseat. She sat there and looked all around for awhile, taking in the unfamiliar sights and sounds. After a bit she got tired of that and decided she wanted to eat. She nursed on her Boppy pillow with me sitting in my beach chair, a light blanket draped over her to shield her tender skin from the sun. Once she finished I returned her to the cabana, this time laying her on a towel and propping her up a little with the Boppy pillow. She smiled and cooed at us for awhile, then started to fidget and fuss as her little eyes got heavy. As luck would have it the clouds gathered at that time and I was able to take her out of the cabana and dance with her a bit. It wasn't long before she was sound asleep. I gently placed her back in the cabana where she proceeded to sleep peacefully for an hour or so.

While Bella slept and my Mom enjoyed the sun, Kylie, Phillip and I went out in the water. One good thing about the water in Maine, it's usually too cold for sharks (and most people). Today was no exception, but since I've never been to the beach without going in the water (and under the water), I took the plunge. When she wasn't getting plowed over by them, Kylie had a blast jumping the waves. Phillip was a little more timid, but as long as he was securely perched on my hip he didn't mind the waves too bad. We stayed in the water until my feet were completely numb, then headed back to the shore. Kylie and Phillip played in the sand, while I sat and talked with my Mom.

We only spent a couple of hours on the beach. We hope to go back tomorrow, so we didn't want to take a chance on overdoing it today. Tonight we all have a nice tinge of pink to us. Nobody burned, but each of us has a definite rosy glow (except for Bella). Both Kylie and Phillip have thanked me countless times for taking them to the beach today, and they're already planning tomorrow's trip. Bella was so worn out from the sea air that she fell asleep on the playroom floor while I was in the shower. I think she already has the makings of a beach bum, it's in her genes.

There's something about the beach that rejuvenates me. Maybe it's the simplicity of it. No television, no radio, no computer, just the roar of the ocean, the cry of the seagulls, and the people I love. There is nothing like sitting and feeling the kiss of the sun on your face, especially after enduring a winter that dropped more than one hundred inches of snow. With the sun warming my body and the sand beneath my feet I have no to-do list, no worries. I don't think about next week or next month, I just hope that tomorrow will be another warm, sunny day, a beach day, a perfect day.