it's over

...summer, that is. As I’ve outlined, the part of it I didn’t spend in an environment only a mushroom farmer might be jealous of, I spent as a job-hunting housefrau with children battling over my shoulder and debris collecting at my ankles as I sat here struggling to transform my ennui into a palatable form of entertainment. Am I sounding enough like Erma Bombeck? As to the children; it’s beyond me how someone with a pair of servants and a fourteen inch waist can still find things to gripe about. They blame me. I pass it onto ‘W’. We’re all shouting down rat holes. The few day trips we’ve made to the beach (which collectively strung together constitute our ‘vacation’) have on my end been marred by the tragic sight of acres of sun-poisoned flesh and [maybe not enough] Lycra sun wear. Personally, I have three bathing suit choices; the knee-length ‘jams’ which can pass as shorts for ‘from-beach-to-raw bar’ attire; the mid-thigh boxer cut in a fun print, which is exclusively for pool parties; and most revealing, the square-cut Lycra, which I do wear to the beach primarily because they fit well under shorts without looking like I’m wearing a diaper and because... well, I’m Russian- we take sun-bathing seriously. Pretend you hadn’t noticed. I am able to expand on that flimsy justification. 1- By ‘Russian guy at the beach’ standards, the square-cut is downright Victorian. 2- I don’t stand up. I am there to tan every inch of flesh I can get away with baring in public, and as I say- I don’t stand up. The amount of time I spend dropping my shorts or getting up to shake sand out of the towel is calculated like a chess move. A friend of mine used to take a camera to the beach to fill his album of people seduced into thinking that no one was watching- I pretty much know how long I have to fuss a towel with sweaty hams to the sun and my ‘joe’ [that’s ‘gut’, now] spilling over the drawstring. I rely on sunglasses to provide the necessary anonymity for just those few seconds. In my mind I’m the Prince of York fighting for a few relaxed moments as a commoner. (I’m all WASP on the other side). Last week a gigantic wave lifted my oldest son off of his float and deposited him on his head in the receding surf. Now, there have been few occasions to convince me that he isn’t made of rubber- he’s been jumping out of second-story windows for about four years now. (I have dreams about being Bam Margera’s fat father, waking up at 3 am to my son driving an ATV through my bedroom). I don’t want to seem completely jaded but I pretty much knew what the dozen witnesses and sprinting lifeguards didn’t. That if ignored, he would have shaken it off in two minutes before setting off to toss jellyfish at his little brother. But more likely that, given the moment, having the attention of a crowd of people would turn him into Blanche Dubois. I’ll call the several hours we lost going to the ER (no injury) well spent for learning how to keep him compliant on short jaunts. Next time we have to drag him along on an errand, we simply have to duct tape him to a plank and honk the horn all the way. Searchingly, I am forced to wonder if the several seconds it took for me to transition from jiggly sunbather into modestly attired parent would, on the occasion of a true emergency, have cost the response valuable time. To my past credit, I have jumped into pools fully [even formally] clothed to fish him out. I have carried him and also less intrepid (yet every bit as dramatic) playmates for several blocks when a bit of blood has rendered them inconsolable. I’ve logged enough time in the ER for ‘curtain rod-related’ injuries and yet avoided being red-flagged as a child-abuser so as hopefully to earn a modicum of discernable recognition for good judgement. In the meanwhile he’s been given swimming lessons and cautioned repeatedly against rough-housing near window treatments. But you’re only as good as your last call. Prioritizing insecurities is something I’m fresh to. (Lord!, there’s something new at every turn). I’m busy formulating my next call to arms; I’ll be dozing, like so many pivotal moments is my life, it will take me far too long to understand the full import of my inaction. I’d be wearing a thong- one of few sensible choices for ‘holding it up’ in humid weather. I ‘d happily swim out to rescue someone but pray I wouldn’t have to climb scaffolding to get to them. It would probably be the kind of emergency I could barely take seriously, like either one of my own children yelling, "Help, help!". I know!, I haven’t let go of enough to be a self-less parent. I’m getting close though, there’s not much left to hold on to. I don’t need to hear the actual words- I know when someone is correcting my children and I respond like mother Robin does when strangers intrude on her nest. I watch carefully from a distance. I dissuade them from becoming close friends with children whose moms make them wear bicycle helmets. (Don't jump on me, I have a helmet for every day of the week, if I could only get them to put one on. I've even suggested wearing two at all times, then, taking one off to ride a bicycle- it would still feel reckless.) And I’ve learned to be vigilant only on Sunday when I know that the waiting room at the ER is packed. It’s important to play the odds. I hope that I am reliable in an emergency but that I am never tested. In the end I’d probably be like one of those parents you see in the newspaper that keep their children locked in a closet for two years. (I think I know [where 'at' was their head]). A friend of mine was walking his dog on a beach in New Jersey when a ‘park ranger?’ cautioned him to keep away from the nesting site of the endangered "Piping-Plover". It was explained to him that the mere presence of a ‘boy and his dog’ would cause the adult Piping-Plovers to abandon the nest, assuring the demise of the wee Pps. My friend responded, "Isn’t that a bird that deserves to be extinct?". I’m not sure what my point was, except maybe to bring my narrative back to the beach. This week we managed to shake the ‘Baywatch’ hopefuls. We tried out a new beach. Number two son let go of his kite which managed on it’s own to tether to an empty WWII look-out tower. We were ever so proud, driving away from such a conspicuous tag. Maybe it would still be there next spring. God willing everyone is still alive, we’ll be among the first to find out.