And now you can feel like you were there, too, Dad

This post is for my dad, who rented a beach condo for all his daughters and grandchildren on Father's Day but didn't get to come along to enjoy it. Now you can experience it just like we did, Dad!

A few months ago, my mom got a steal on a 3 bed, 2 bath condo in Duck Beach. The downside was that I would need to drive many hours alone with my children and be away from John on Father's Day. The upside was that I got to spend 5 days, 6 nights with my mom, my aunt, my sisters, and my nephew. Pros definitely won out over cons on this one. As an added bonus, I learned some important lessons about preparedness (always have a vomit bag or bucket and several rags handy, for example). Win/win.

The drive down was the low point. It took 10 hours and involved 3 vomit stops, each of which was progressively worse than the last, and all of which happened at times when I could not pull over immediately and was therefore left frantically looking for a parking lot/back alley/anywhere to stop while watching Evelyn upchuck into her hands/shirt/etc. In my defense, she had never shown any signs of car sickness before. The first one was so minor that it really didn't alert me to the fact that we had a major problem, and after the second incident, she seemed fine plus we were so close that I assumed we could make it there without future incident. I gave her Dramamine on the way back, and we didn't have any incidents, so maybe that helped?

Once we got there, it was all treats and swimsuits and bubbles and sand. What could be better?

When I eat treats, I have to let the kids eat treats, right? I gained about 5 pounds, so everyone had a really good time. 

Beach days were like this: First, dig a hole to keep Hyrum occupied, preferably a hole with a large pile of sand beside it. Then, help Evelyn build a sand castle, or even better, convince Meara to help Evelyn build a sand castle. My sister Meara was an castle-building, bubble-blowing angel all week. Thank you Meara!

We also went on a few little excursions. One day we visited a lighthouse in Corolla. Evelyn climbed all the way up and all the way down, all by herself. She had lots of energy after a little power nap in the car on the way up. After our experience driving in on Saturday, she was nervous to get back in the car. I gave her the bucket and then told her that closing your eyes can help with motion sickness.

Contemplating the lighthouse

Posing in front of the lighthouse

Nonna chickening out of actually climbing to the top of the lighthouse

Look at all those stairs!

Stupendous but poorly photographed views from the top

Nonna and Careen stayed with the babies and waved to us from below.

 Don't they make a dashing couple?

There was also a disappointing non pony ride. A local arts festival had promised pony rides on Thursday, so E and I talked about it all week then drove 35 minutes each way and paid for parking to participate. Unfortunately, they had decided it was too hot and they would offer rides instead the next day (the day we drove home) from 11-2. So, we were sad because she didn't get to ride the pony but happy because she got to stand next to the little pen the pony was in and watch/try to feed/pet the pony for 30+ minutes. We also heard all about the poor little foal who died because some idiot tourist decided to go against the posted rules and feed the wild mustangs on the beach. Baby horses cannot eat apples, people! We remedied the missed pony ride a mere four days after our return. More on that to follow.

More eating:

More swimming, too, although we did not embrace the laid-back culture of the Outer Banks as much as some people encouraged.

A baby pool + a baby float is a dream for the mother of a cruising child. Hyrum got around great all by himself, and I read a book while Meara played with Evelyn in the big pool. Again, Meara, thank you.

On our last day, we visited the Wright Brothers National Memorial in Kill Devil Hills, and I pondered the irony of my choosing the place where the first powered flight occurred as the destination for my first road trip with the children.

First airport

Running/walking/photographing the fourth flight flyover zone. The trip took us about 5 minutes, or approximately 5 times as long as it took them to fly it, and we weren't really hurrying. Air travel has come a long way since then.

We ended our trip with dinner out, where Evelyn colored in the lines and traced all the letters, then set off the fire alarm. The next day, we got up early and drove home, which took a little less than 8.5 hours, if you don't count the 30 minutes it took us to get home from the Lincoln tunnel and the 40 minutes it took me to drive 15 blocks to return the rental car. Luckily, Charles was in town (John was in Pittsburgh). He came home from work in the middle of the afternoon to take everything upstairs then changed two dirty diapers while waiting for me to return the rental car. Go Charles!

All in all, it was a very successful trip. So, thanks again, Dad. Hope some of the many, many leftover cookies made their way home to you. Happy belated Father's Day! 

Love,

Emma + Evelyn + Hyrum

Father's Day, both early (the celebration) and belated (my documentation of it)

The kids and I went to Duck Beach this Father's Day. This was ironic for several reasons, the first being the fact that this is the only Sunday we have been apart from John in 2011 (and may be the only time all year we are separated on a Sunday). Also, Duck Beach is somewhat of a Mormon singles destination once a year, so apparently John got some funny looks when he told people I had absconded with the children to that particular destination, especially for Father's Day.

In any case, we celebrated the week before. Really and truly. We started Saturday night with grilled hot dogs, which we enjoyed al fresco.

The next day, Evelyn gave John homemade gifts and sang him the Primary song the ward would sing a week later. I made crepes with berries and whipped cream for lunch and short ribs (more like jerky, but it's the thought that counts, right?) with roasted potatoes and a salad for dinner; we dropped by Grand Central as part of a family walk/scooter/skateboard ride to help our digestion along in between.

In fact, we celebrated so completely that I kept forgetting it wasn't Father's Day for everyone else, too, which allowed me to "traipse off to the beach" (i.e. pack my children into a rental car and drive ten hours alone - including three vomit stops) six days later with very little guilt. After all, if being late evidences a lack of feeling or care, shouldn't being early show the opposite?

On being left behind

I recently found out that another dear friend is leaving the city. We haven't seen each other much the past several months. Children's nap schedules can conspire to do the most awful things to their mother's friendships. But with both our babies getting a little older, I was looking forward to reconnecting again as 2011 marches on. That seems unlikely now.

It's a strange sensation, this pain of being left behind. I had an inner ear infection once, my senior year of high school. It didn't hurt nearly as much as a regular ear infection, but it gave me a constant feeling of falling. My mom had to drive me everywhere for a few days because my balance was shot. It was like those dreams where you plummet off a cliff and wake up right before hitting the ground, except the ground never came, and I didn't wake up until a few days of antibiotics had the chance to kick in. This is a little like that.

It's not as if I really want to leave, myself. I spent my childhood as the one who left. We never went much of anywhere that was objectively better than the place where we had been before; the places were better because my dad's job was better, the natural progression of his career leading us around the midwest and southeast. I always say I can't live anywhere but here because I got used to changing wards and schools every few years. This is the only place where I can stay still; everything changes around me, so there's no need to go anywhere. I'd be willing to leave for a great opportunity for John, but so far it seems like the best opportunity right now is the one he's in, and if a better were to present itself, the odds are in favor of his potential new offices being within a mile of his current ones. There is, however, an ugly element of jealousy to all this leaving, if I am honest with myself. The promise of a new start, a dream job, something great waiting over the horizon of which I am not part. How selfish of me.

I am tempted to subconsciously believe that all these people who leave go somewhere I could follow. As if there were a giant suburb somewhere out there that combined Texas, Connecticut, Boston, California, Utah, Idaho, Arizona, and parts unknown into one big alumni gathering of former city dwellers where the weather is perfect, our husbands are home for dinner on a regular basis, everyone lives close to their parents, and we all use our new cars to cruise town ferreting out the best cupcakes (yes, I know cupcakes are so 2007, but I'm not over them yet), the best brunch, the best shack burger substitute before living happily ever after together. I know that doesn't really exist, but sometimes it feels like we should leave, too, so we can go there.

Hardest of all, though, is the inescapable reality that each person who leaves takes a part of you with them. In this case, there's the part that took our first family photos, the part that watched my daughter when I went into labor last year, the part that held my newborn baby boy when he was just one day old, that pushed his bassinet into the light to capture his face in an innocence it will never again possess. I'm not sure how I feel about all those parts of me being scattered everywhere, all over the country, the world even. How much is there to go around? How many times can I regenerate?

Earlier this year, a member of our congregation passed away unexpectedly. A few months later, his widow spoke in fast and testimony meeting. She made a comment that touched me in a profound way. She spoke of how surprised she had been at the outpouring of support from friends long gone when they heard about her husband's death. Almost as if the tragedy had revealed invisible wires still carrying currents of trust and love, still connecting them to all their friends who had moved on over a lifetime of being left behind. We realized those friendships were still strong, that they still meant something in a moment like this, she said. She looked right at me when she said it, as if she wanted to tell me that it would be OK. I think of that again now, for the hundredth time or so, and I wonder. Maybe I am doing that too. Maybe I am not being left behind so much as I am standing right at the center of my own safety net of people everywhere, a tiny dot on a route map of places where a light is left burning for me in the heart of a friend.

Travel Log: California Road Trip Edition - San Francisco

Wednesday, cont.

-Make ourselves at home for a trip into San Francisco on BART.
-Check into Palace Hotel

-Dinner at Tropisueno - yuppy Mexican food, but we didn't have time to go to the Mission district

Thursday


-Emma: morning walk; John: sleep in/work

-Hit up our favorite smoothie joint

-Amble around our hotel's neighborhood

-Grab some Runts (not pictured)

-Head over to the Ferry building for lunch at the Slanted Door. Yum!

-Stroll along the morning's walking route

Bay Bridge

-Pick up some locally made chocolates for the grandmas

Alcatraz

-Check out Bojangles

-Keep on walking, all the way over to the Palace of Fine Arts. Yeah, it was far.

But worth it. So worth it.

-Take the bus back to:

Also, so worth it.

-Wait 45 minutes to take the trolley car back to our hotel.

Friday


-Morning run for Emma. Morning sleep for John. Morning trip to the airport for both of us, followed by a nice long, leisurely plane ride sans children.