Traditions

Took the kids to the beach yesterday. It's a nice, quiet one in Greenwich, that we used to frequent when we were renting in Connecticut. It's too expensive and there are too many hoops to jump through getting parking passes and such to go to all the time, but we still go once a year in the last week of Summer vacation. It's become a tradition. I probably write a blog about it every year at this time, too.

Traditions are important, I like to say, and I mean it. They are to me. I think they are to Jack and Kate, too, more so every year.

We bundle into the car with all of our beach stuff: pails and shovels, paddle ball games, boogie boards. Stop at Dunkin' Donuts for iced coffee and donuts. Jump through the hoops for beach passes (they moved the location of where you get them! Grr.). Same, same, same.

On the way along the shore to the beach, we drive by a private beach. Do you want to get out here, Jack? As I've asked for about 5-6 years now, I imagine. He says Yes. We laugh.

Walking out onto the beach, it's high tide, which is perfect. As the day goes on, we'll get more and more beach. So we start out walking out into the water, swimming a little. When we get deep, Kate clings to me. Then each one clings to one of my arms and I walk, them trailing along, floating on their backs beside me. We do this for a little while, then head back to the towels.

The water starts to recede. The beach gets bigger, and the water there is gets shallower. Jack and Kate walk through it together, holding their nets. They find rocks, shells, hermit crabs. They find these clear, squishy silver dollar type things. They feel weird and we have no idea what they are. Somebody suggests jellyfish, and we dismiss it, because they can be held. Jack theorizes they are Jigglyfish, which is something he invented at the Cape to fool or scare Kate. We ask a lifeguard. They ARE jellyfish, just a kind that doesn't sting. We name them Jigglyfish.

They play together in the water, tackling each other without causing damage. Sometimes this ends up with whining, fighting, or minor injury. Not today. Their laughs and smiles are big and real, and I wish I could photograph them forever, but I'm in the water and I've made that mistake with my phone in the past. I take pictures with my mind and hope I never forget them.

Jack and I play paddleball. We reach 20. He says we should try for 30. We eventually get there, and he sends the 30th soaring into the water in triumph. We take a 10-minute break and he says, let's beat 30. We reach 55 and are very proud.

Kate and I make a sandcastle. Jack works on building a dock and a boat off the edge of the moat. If I make a castle that doesn't meet Kate's demanding standards, she squishes it into oblivion. We make tower after tower until we get three that are acceptable. We decorate with seaweed and shells. We include a few hermit crabs, which we later liberate so they can scuttle back into the ocean.

We go buy lunch, dropping $30 on a burger, hotdog, chicken nuggets, and as always more french fries than any human being could possibly consume at a sitting. Jack insists on mozzarella sticks, I say no, and he reminds me that I always say no and he always says "But we always get them!" so we get them. So we get them. And they're pretty good. Food just tastes better at the beach.

After lunch, Jack and Kate play Giant in the water. I'm a little hazy on the rules of this game, but it involves taking big, slow-motion steps. The water is very shallow as the tide goes out so it works well. I take pictures from afar, wanting to show it but not wanting to get close enough to intrude.

Kate makes a friend, a little girl about her age, and they swim together and capture and release hermit crabs. When they were younger, it was usually Jack who made friends, some boy to play baseball with. Now the beach kids are younger, and my kids are older. He and I swim and play with a ball in the water.

Soon (too soon?) it's 5 p.m., and we're sun-cooked and water-logged. I actually think we could stay even longer, but it's time to go. We pack up and stumble out to the car to drive home. I don't turn and wave goodbye to the beach; I don't really want to say goodbye.

Just, See you next year.