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Bittersweet Beach

Tonight I took a walk on the beach by myself. A long walk, so long that when I turned back I could no longer see my hotel, and I was nervous that I might not be able to distinguish which one of the peachy-pink beachfront hotels was mine. Luckily for me, when it came back into view, I could see that the word “Ramada” was printed on it’s side in GIANT letters. I imagine they did that for the advertising benefit and the benefit to directionally challenged vacationers like myself is just a bonus.

But anyways –

I walked so long that at the end of my walk my hips hurt, and my lower back, reminding me of what an out-of-shape old lady I am. And I think, if Sophie was with me here on the beach, she’d have RUN me that distance, her little orange-and-yellow-swimsuit-clad bottom streaking across the sand before I could blink. And then, I’d really be sore.

But she’s not with me. On this beach vacation, I am alone.

Alone! How can it be? I don’t go on vacation alone. How am I here? What am I doing here? It’s crazy, so crazy I didn’t even really believe I was going until I was on a plane here.

I’m here, at the beach, by myself, because my sweet hubby thought I needed a break. This is what happens when you lose your mind, ladies. You get sent off not to the looney bin but to the beach! I’m not complaining.

I’m thankful for the break, thankful to see the ocean, smell it, feel it between my toes. I can’t wait to sleep in and nap and not change poopy diapers for a couple of days.

But, oh, I miss them already! It was so hard to leave them at the airport. I held Sophie for the longest time. Joshua was all, “have a great time!” – he’s just thrilled that Daddy’s going to be home from work for a few days. But Sophie, she doesn’t get it yet. And I felt so bad leaving her. Ah, no “break” would be complete without the mother’s guilt.

So. Tonight I took a long walk on the beach. Alone. And it was awesome just to take it all in, to really SEE it.

I think I’ll do it again tomorrow.

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Hand Over the Purell

I am not a germaphobe. I have a whole list of other neuroses (read our archives if you don’t believe me), but germaphobic-ness is not among them. I typically ascribe to the “that which does not kill you” philosophy about germs.

However.

My kids have a way of finding the absolute grossest item in a ten-mile radius, and touching, licking, or generally wallowing in it. And it is about enough to send me over the edge.

We went out of town this past weekend, and I don’t know if it was just that I was a hormonal mess or that things seem grosser away from home, but seriously my kids were killing me with all the nasty things they were doing. First of all, we ate in a lot of restaurants, obviously, and even on a good day, restaurant high chairs make me cringe. So I felt like Sammy was a giant germ cesspool from that alone. (Yes, I have a Floppy Seat and yes, I was diligent about it when Kate was little, but alas it remains in a closet somewhere with the rest of the we’re-awesome-first-time-parents paraphernalia.) When we got to our hotel room, I just had to pop a Xanax and come to terms with the fact that I could not prevent him from crawling on the floor for our entire four-day stay.

And Kate. That girl has always been a magnet for disgusting. She spent the weekend laying down on the bench seat at Burger King and not just holding but lovingly stroking the handrails at Busch Stadium.

Seriously, the day she decides that touching the toilet seat is not absolutely crucial to the getting-off-the-potty process will be one of the proudest days of my life.

At one point I turned to Andy and said “I don’t know how real germaphobes ever leave the house, because I am about to have an anxiety attack.”

But I’m not a germaphobe. For real. You believe me, right?

Damn. Add that one to the list too.

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Jenny, you *were* the gold standard.

Many months ago, Jenny wrote this post:

Yesterday I went to my OB-GYN for my yearly pap (men stop reading here) and when my doctor was done with my exam she said, “Well, my dear, you’re perfect.”

Perfect? Really?

This brings up two questions:

1) Was she referring to my lady business? ‘Cause she’s seen a lot of that in her line of work, so you know, she can make a fair comparison.

2) Do you think she says that to all the girls?

Just wonderin’…

Just last week, I visited my OB-GYN, who is also Jenny’s OB-GYN (we share everything – blogs, jobs, gynecologists…), and Dr. P had barely opened up the door when she made this exclamation:

“You’re perfect!”

But since I was just there to get some test results and I was fully clothed, she couldn’t have been talking about my “lady business,” as Jenny put it. So she must have just been talking about me in general, right? Like I, as a whole, am perfect? (If you’ve ever met me or have even run across this blog before – STOP LAUGHING, it’s possible!)

Probably not.

So Jenny, I hate to burst your bubble, but yes, she says that to all the girls.

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