The scent of sunblock fills the air.
“Did you get the umbrella?” I yell to my husband as he runs up the stairs to grab another towel.
“Yes, I did.” He answers in a curt tone that screams, DON’T BOTHER ME.
I go back to sun blocking my daughter. “Why can’t we use the spray stuff?” she whines.
“It doesn’t work on you, you got burned last time.” I remind her. “Besides I’m the one doing all the work, what are you complaining for?”
Her silence is my answer.
My son rushes past asking the air, “Where’s my slides?”
“In your soccer bag.” I yell to the blurred figure.
My husband comes back down carrying three beach towels and our collection of kites.
“Oohhhh, you remembered!” I praise him. We always forget the kites.
After finishing my daughter, I snag my son as he attempts to fly by again and begin sunblocking his back. He allows it with impatient toe tapping and huffing.
My husband appears again. “Sunglasses, where are my sunglasses?”
“In the entry.” I answer his frantic words.
After I have done my mother-hen duties and protected my young from the harmful rays of the sun, I take a moment to prepare myself. I grab a book, sun glasses, a first aid kit and a bottle of water and toss them into a canvas bag. I take my “survival kit” and amble outside to see what the others are up to.
“No, there!” My husband isn’t quite yelling but it’s getting there. He and my son are attempting to shove a cooler into an already over-stuffed trunk.
“Here let me.” I rush over and take the lower edge from my son. Together, my husband and I angle and shove until the cooler is in enough that the trunk hatch will close.
It is now 10:30am, 85 degrees and we are all sweating, red faced and at differing levels of frustration.
“Everyone ready for some fun?” My words drip with sarcasm as we climb in and head for the beach.
Rebecca Lamprey 