I am sitting on the deck of our family's beach house. There is a beer, cold and wet sitting next to me in a pink gingham koozie and my feet are propped on the ledge. The sun will not set for another three hours, but the heat of the day has faded away. Tom Petty is on the radio and Fuzzy is next to me, playing in one of those little kid plastic cars-- the ones with the blue lids and the horn squeaks more than honks.
Layla just came on and the older two are in the front and throwing things up on the deck. Thankfully, they are failing more than they are succeeding. When I was their age, I thought our front yard at the beach was as large as a baseball field. It's not, but it's flat, the grass is lush and there are little clovers in it. The only other place that has grass as nice as this yard is the Augusta National.
We are having hamburgers for supper and I cannot help but think how fortunate I am. Three children before me, my husband-- three and half hours away, working (okay, so that part is not very fortunate), and the sea air in my suddenly curly, unwashed hair.
The kids have been slightly above average, but it is a learning curve right now. The quarters are small and certainly not childproof. The youngest still naps in the afternoon when the girls would rather be getting sunburned and sandy on the beach.
Otis Redding is wafting through the humidity and the beer is now empty. The kids have started throwing those same things at each other, instead of the deck. Neither of them have much of a future in horseshoes. Whoops... Bennie's toy just went over the fence and she is wailing. Birdie saves the day, running with the lightning speed that all 7 year olds have to save Everest, the stuffed puppy that just met his demise.
"Robert Keen" comes on. I cannot help but think of my cousin in Montana and how much fun we always have when we are together.
Life is beautiful and it's a good day. It didn't start out good and there were certainly some low points since the sun rose this morning-- but right now, this moment is awesome.
Fuzzy runs to me, tugs on a t-shirt full of holes from a St. Patrick's Day social in 1999 and rests his head on my leg.
The girls are pink cheeked and asking for a drink.
Sometimes a blog full of nothing can really amount to something.