Memory Making is Exhausting

Making memories is exhausting. I woke up this morning, every muscle aching. My chest and face are bright red and I'm pretty sure half the beach is in my laundry area.

But it was a good Fourth.

We started our celebration the night before.

Anne invited the kids and I to her family's beach house. Located across the street from the beach, it's a spacious house with high ceilings, tile flooring, and Tamara's Perch, a wind shielded roof top deck that just begs for a glass of wine.

When we got the kids tucked into their quilt covered beds after a trip to the park, we mixed a couple of drinks and stayed up until nearly midnight chatting about online dating, craft projects, and if a place that breeds Golden Retrievers could call itself a ranch.

The next morning, the kids slept in until nearly 8. Which never happens and makes me want to move to the beach on the off chance it was the ocean air. We ate breakfast and then walked the two blocks to the parade route.

Chairs and balloon archways lined the street. Churches handed out popcorn, the smell of salt and butter mingling with the tang of the ocean. We met Tara and Jen and their families, chatting and handing children back and forth. The kids traded sunglasses, wedged themselves into chairs together, and held their own conversations.


The parade started with a firetruck. Float after float drove by. Some as simple as a group in the back of a pick up truck. Others more elaborate with pirate ships, roaring twenties themes, teepees, dancing, bands, and synchronized swimmers that made us laugh until after they passed. Most threw candy to the kids, making them scramble into the street to collect their prizes. I couldn't help but remember my own parade experiences on Bald Eagle Day when we'd run to collect the candy tossed from the back of flat beds and convertibles.

 At the beginning of the parade, a family ran out to the street to get their picture taken in front of the vintage fire truck. We all looked on in bewilderment as the entire parade paused so they could get their family picture. Tara, being Tara, jumped out of her seat as the truck passed us, calling, "Pause the parade! Take our picture!"

Everyone around us laughed as she struck a pose.


 As the parade ended, the crowd started for the beach. We decided to start for the beach house to make lunch for the kids. For the adults, cherry hard lemonade and coconut lime salted brown butter cookies were on the menu, which, let's be honest, is far yummier than turkey sandwiches. Even if those sandwiches are accompanied by the ever coveted Cheetos.

We put the kids in their suits and walked to town to check out the peddlers' fair and sandcastle contest.

The peddlers' fair was filled with typical fare. Food booths advertised corn dogs, sharma, BBQ, and hot dogs. We wandered through, tracking each other's children, and trying to keep a head count on the ones under our noses. We stopped and looked at wooden birdhouses crafted into diners and wineries, we looked at sun hats, bought shoes, and then, we saw the paintings.

The first to catch Joseph's eye was titled "Plastic Indigestion" - a Lego minifigure trapped in a shark's mouth. Pulling me to a stop, he begged to look. So we did. Giggling over the Lego Monkey on a banana boat and laughing at the honey bear watching a light saber battle. We might have all three gasped "Oh my gosh!" and rushed from painting to painting, drawing the attention of the artist who patiently explained each piece to Joseph and Elizabeth.

We finally made it to the beach in time to view another sort of art before high tide washed it away.

After the beach, Joseph commented that he'd never had a snow cone in his whole entire life. I didn't think that could possibly be right. What kind of mother wouldn't let her child eat a corn syrup, dye, and ice concoction guaranteed to stain clothes and make her child sticky from head to toe? Certainly not me! A quick glance at their sandy hands and faces, and I caved.





We made the slow walk to back to the beach house beach access where we grabbed sand toys, sun shades, and towels. The next few hours were spent exploring a sea anemone covered rock, jumping waves, gasping at the cold water, digging for hermit crabs, and building sandcastles too close to the water's edge. The sun peeped out from the marine layer, warming and then cooling.

Elizabeth fell asleep to the sound of the ocean and we finally packed up to start the long walk back to the house. We stripped all the kids naked, sending them running in a parade of bare butts to the showers. We laughed that at some point, we'll embarrass them with the stories of how they used to shower together. With squeaky clean kids, I loaded up the car and headed home to meet Chad and finish off our Fourth of July celebration.

He arrived at our house with the bed of his truck filled with cushions. We grabbed pizza, waters, and candy and parked in a dirt field overlooking the firework location. As the sun set and the wind sent a chill through our bodies, we watched the moon rise orange on the horizon. We made wishes on the evening star. Joseph insisted it be the eastern evening star and somehow aligned himself precisely east to make his wish.

And then the fireworks began. As each burst of color exploded across the night sky, the boom echoed over the rolling hills. Elizabeth cried out, "They're going to hurt the moon!" While Joseph assured her, "The moon is very far away." And I added, "Besides, doesn't it look like the moon is actually setting off some of those fireworks?"

With a final burst of color, the fireworks ended. We scrambled into the cab of the truck and headed home, so tired the kids fell asleep in minutes.

It was a wonderful Fourth of July.

Now if only we had the Fifth of July off as well.