Here I Sit

Here I sit, on vacation at last, on the upper deck of a beachhouse in Stone Harbor, New Jersey. A quiet little family town, Stone Harbor has been a summer sanctuary for me since my very first summer, and now that I have a daughter of my own to share it with, my affection for the place only grows.

The smell of the ocean a mere two blocks away drifts casually but confidently on the strong evening breeze. My favorite sounds in my ears – “Faithfully” by Journey, “Southern Cross” by CSN&Y, “Cool Change” by Little River Band (God bless the mp3 player) – sweeten the sensation of calm overcoming my nerve-wracked existence. As unstressful as my current life is by comparison to the days when I worked outside the home, the uptightness that remains becomes painfully evident when, finally in my refuge, I actually feel relaxation occurring. Hallelujah, vacation!

What makes a setting ideal and idyllic? I suppose it differs for everyone. For me, the requirements are open air (no skyscrapers), water, warm temperatures, safety, and a certain aesthetic native to the small towns that retain the wholesome values of cleanliness and quiet. That my family is here with me just further serves the scenery – no six people I’d rather be with than my daughter, husband, parents, sister, and future brother-in-law. It doesn’t hurt any that we got a KILLER beachhouse, quite by accident and entirely thanks to my parents, so that every comfort is provided and every needed accommodated many times over. The only thing missing is my dogs, but we were assured that any house that permitted pets would be one we wouldn’t want to stay in, so alas, the mutts are also getting a vacation at their favorite local vet where they will be daily fussed over and treated.

I think half the fun is in wondering what this year’s adventure will hold – will it be warm? Will it be sunny? Will it rain at least once so I have a solid excuse to go play in Atlantic City? Will there be jellyfish? (This year’s answer, sadly, is yes – warm seawater means, as my sister so eloquently put it, a shoreline littered with “a million little breast implants”. And now with the baby along, there are new questions: will she like the water? How much sand will she eat? Will we be able to keep her happy on a blanket under an umbrella or will she immediately get tired of being confined? Will we thus be able to stay on the beach more than 15 minutes? In any case, I really don’t care – I am happy just to be here, away from the routine, the daily duress of worries about money, time management, and the speed with which my precious little one is going through her young life right before our eyes. For one week, everything just slows down a little, and all there is to worry about is how long to stay out in the sun.

The day before departure every year is like Christmas Eve – full of anticipation that makes it hard to sleep and that much more exciting to finally arrive. Last night, between my own anxiety and the alternate snoring of my husband and fidgeting of my baby daughter, heard on the baby monitor from which I can’t bring myself to part, I didn’t get much sleep. I don’t think I’ll have that problem tonight.