The sound of our bumper dragging along the Atlantic City Expressway got me thinking about space….or, the lack of it. We were scheduled to begin our vacation – a time supposedly set aside for rest and rejuvenation- on Wednesday morning. However, instead of feeling a sense of freedom that usually accompanies a change in scenery and break from routine…I felt like I was taking a timed Calculus exam – at gunpoint. The energy of our house was like a soupy fog hanging over the Golden Gate Bridge: Phil, who has been playing catch-up at work since taking time off for my surgery, was coming home late with his ass cheeks fists clenched. Over the course of three days, Emma had averaged about four hours of sleep. Phoebe, who is going through the Hell otherwise known as the two year molars, spent the same three days with her fingers crammed in her mouth, whimpering “Mommy, Mommy” repeatedly while drooling like a St. Bernard. And then there is me, in the middle of it all, trying to cram shit into suitcases in between episodes of Caillou and lubing up with Preparation H dealing with post-surgical issues. I was moving through mud; emptying the dishwasher felt like a Feat of Strength.

The tension mounted like a pressure cooker until, on Wednesday morning, the lid blew off the pot. Or, as Emma explained tearfully to my 92 year-old grandmother on the phone as to why we were delaying our departure for a few days: “Well, Nanny…this morning everyone here just kind of freaked out. ONE. BIG. FREAK OUT.”

Now, this decision to hang out for a few days was hardly an informed decision. I didn’t know why I thought it was a good idea or what we were going to do at home with no food in the fridge and all our underwear in suitcases….I just knew that we needed to put the brakes on this runaway train for a minute and, incorporate the wise words of Steve from Blue’s Clues: “Stop. Breathe. Think.”

 So I stopped. I sat down on the kitchen floor and rested my head on my knees. I took ten deep breathes, and then ten more. I prayed silently: “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

And slowly, the tension in the room began to release. Phil stopped massaging his temples and announced he was still taking the day off. The girls stopped crying. We decided to go to the pool. We ordered a pizza for dinner. We skipped bathtime. We drank a few beers and watched The Real Housewives of New Jersey. (Nothing like watching a fist fight at a baby’s baptism to make you feel better about your life).

I began to realize that since my surgery, we have tried to jump back into ‘business as usual’ at a frenetic pace, trying to cram in anything that had been missed or neglected over the past three months….even though we all have red flashing “No Vacancy” signs emblazed on our foreheads. We’ve been filling the space we so desperately need. Space to be tired and cranky….space to process the months of Colon Craziness…space to heal.  Trying to pull ourselves together for a road trip was like trying to cram one more scooter into that packed car.

The funny thing is, a few days of down time was all we really needed. By Friday we were on the road to Avalon, ready to jumpstart our vacation with a weekend with my four best friends from college. Who, incidentally, are my ultimate space-makers, because they know me so well, make me laugh so hard and strongly encourage cocktails with lunch.

Somewhere in between mealtimes, naptimes, and hosing down sandy children, we were able to steal some adult moments and catch up on each other’s lives. (And we all know that it is these late night, wine soaked sessions where all the great mysteries of the universe are revealed). As it turns out, this issue of space – or the lack of it- seems to be a universal struggle. Single or married, professional or homemaker, parent, dog-owner, homeowner, or devoted daughter-sister-friend…we all struggle with creating space to just be…or, become.

Somewhere in between Kellie’s breastfeeding breaks, Lynne’s late night Roger Rabbit dance tutorial and the tweaking of Kathy’s E-Harmony profile, we came to the following conclusion about Creating Space:

1. Pencil It In: You literally need to create space for space. Kellie shared that she and her husband reserve Monday nights for ‘free time,’ and alternate week to week. Every Monday night someone gets the kid duties while the other gets to read People Magazine  a book, research law school, stare into space…whatever floats your boat.

2. Two Things Can Not Occupy The Same Place At The Same Time: When Emma and Phoebe try to sit in the same chair simultaneously, it never ends well. The same holds true for the amount of hours in the day. In order to make space for something new- whether that be a job, hobby, relationship, or (God forbid) relaxation – you will need to let something else go…like saying yes to every wedding you are invited to, or the dream that every room in your house will be clean at the same time. Or, The Real Housewives of New Jersey  ironing.

3. Surround Yourself With Spacemakers: Pay attention to the people you spend time with and how you feel when you are with them (and immediately following). Some people make you feel inadequate or guarded…you leave them with a brain crammed with “shoulds:” I should go to the gym, my kids should be fluent in Spanish, etc. Other people infuse space into your body by making you laugh (which relaxes your face) and giving you long hugs (which releases tension from your shoulders). These same people create room in your heart by letting you cry (which releases pent up emotion) and bitch about your husband (which just feels good sometimes releases old frustrations) It is these people who also create space in your mind by reminding you of your gifts. They remind you that you are loved. They remind you of where you came from, while opening up avenues of possibility for where you may be headed…and that you don’t need to go there alone.

These are my kind of people.

The 4th of July is the grandest holiday in the summer season at our town’s swimming pool.

First, there’s a small parade of old cars, old politicians, young Scouts, a rag-tag band of musicians, and a huge flotilla of kids on anything with wheels.  The kids and bikes, scooters, and strollers are all gussied up in red, white, and blue, of course.  One year, a woman who lived on the parade route dipped and distributed mini ice cream cones to the passing crowd.

The parade ends at the pool.  There are games on water and on land, and the whole shebang ends with a giant picnic.  The day at the pool was, for our boys, Christmas in July.  Today’s photo shows Hugh flipping on the 4th, a few years ago.  He loves this picture because of the implied vapor trail. 

Now?  Our boys couldn’t care less about the town celebration.  Ian was the only person from our family who even went to the pool yesterday, and that was only because he was working as a lifeguard.

More globally, our boys couldn’t care less about the pool.  There is definitely a bell curve for kids and pools.

First, they can’t swim and may be scared of the water.  You have to be with them every minute.  As toddlers, they fall frequently on the wet pool decks.  You have to dry their tears.  They are still in diapers, which become saturated and bloated with water after a few minutes in the baby pool. 

God forbid the dreaded Diaper Burst occurs, which dooms you to picking up the bits of wet cotton and those weird absorbent gel pills for the next 15 minutes.   This ecological disaster bears some similarities to the BP oil spill, complete with the apologies to disgusted pool users.  “We deeply regret the flaws in our diaper management system and are doing all we can to restore the pool and playground area to its original condition so that all may enjoy it again.” 

Once toilet trained, the kids advance to the shallow end of the large pool.  You still must watch them like a hawk, or play with them every minute.  I for one should have perfectly toned arms from those hours of playing Motorboat, Motorboat with my boys.  They wanted constant  interaction with us, back in those days. 

Then they learned to swim, and took the big pool test, earning the honor of going off the diving board and allowing them to be under the watchful eye of only the lifeguards. 

When Ian passed this test, I created a tour de force of a celebratory dessert.  It was a sheet cake, with blue tinted icing and Twizzler lap lanes.  The diving board was made from a Lik-M-Aid dipper and frosting.  The swimmers were Teddy Grahams.  The piece de resistance was a Teddy Graham doing the sidestroke in the laplane, which everyone at the pool instantly recognized as the lady who does only that stroke, keeping her head bobbing above the water, and who yells at the kids for splashing her when she’s near the diving board.  They never understand why she’s upset about getting wet while she’s in the pool, and frankly, neither does anyone else.

At the age of 10, the kids are allowed to go to the pool alone, with no parent or babysitter acting as chaperone.  This was a godsend for our family, because our house is located just a short hike through backyards and woods away from the pool.  For the next couple of years, the boys are completely digging their independence, and so are we.

By the middle of middle school, though, it’s all over.  The pool has lost its luster.  They stop going.

We can only get Hugh and Malcolm to go if that’s where the family dinner will be served.  Chris uses the pool, and does his 1000 laps every summer.  Ian works there.  I go once in a blue moon.  It’s a wasting asset – sadly.

And the bell curve ends, as flat as it began.

While it wasn’t the longest stretch that I have been left to my own devices, the last four days of solitude were just the right amount of time to clear out the clutter in the play room and in my head. When Dave and the boys left for Rhode Island earlier this week, I felt sad. I knew I was going to miss them and my in-laws. And even though I needed the rest, I wanted to be a part of their trip. Now I almost wish I had more time alone.

Once each year, I implore you to spend a few days by your entire lonesome self, without having to answer, coordinate, support, converse, or listen to your family. (Business travel doesn’t count.) It is incredibly calming without having to think about the needs of anyone, but you. The brain just empties and you feel lighter all around. And missing your family is a really great thing. Everyone reunites, refreshed and really happy to see each other.

My house smells like “boy” again. One of the brothers was snuggled up against me when I woke this morning, having snuck into the bedroom pre-dawn like the ninja he aspires to be, and Dave walked the dog this morning and let me sleep until the late hour of 8:15. And there were souvenirs last night! Thanks, for the three-pounder, hon! I’m glad you guys are home.

We were at the beach these last few days. The beach is absolutely timeless. While almost everything about the way our children play and interact with the world has changed drastically in the last century (and promises only to evolve further), playing at the beach is the same wonderful experience it has always been. They jump waves, dig holes, make sand castles (complete with sand drips), collect shells, and enjoy the surf. It is simple and joyful.

The next time you are at the beach with the kids, I challenge you to find some activity or moment that hasn’t already happened to you… or your parents.. or their parents years ago. We have the same glorious moments over and over again, albeit these days with much more sun screen.

Do you remember:

1. Trying to dig the biggest hole EVER so that you can fill it with water and make your own swimming pool. Giving up after lugging the bucket filled with ocean water back for the 135th time, only to watch 95 percent of your hard labor absorb into the earth?

2. Devouring a warm, mutilated peanut butter and jelly sandwich that your Mom packed despite the fact that it becomes a sand magnet as soon as you remove it from the Ziploc? Crunch, crunch.

3. Convincing yourself that the sand is not really that hot and you can make from the blanker to the boards without your flip-flops, only to discover halfway to your destination how wrong you were?

4. Getting knocked over by at least one wave each season that sends you mercilessly through the spin cycle, shooting salt water up your nose so bad it stings for the rest of the day?

5. Coming across that one family on the beach that has erected a professional looking castle, complete with stairs, towers, escalators and a working drawbridge and wondering why your parents can’t do that?

6. Chasing seagulls until you get one that doesn’t run – or even worse chases you back?

7. Swimming in the ocean and having that warm spot float across your body – and trying so hard not to think about what it actually was?

8. Coming across some dead, stinky sea life that has washed ashore and being equally revolted and fascinated at the same time?

9. Having high tide come in and begin to erode the sand castle you spent hours on; fruitlessly building a protective dam out of the same ineffective sand that is now washing into the sea?

10. Coming home and being amazed at the amount of sand that has hitchhiked in the crotch of your bathing suit?

And no matter whether it is 1908 or 2008, nothing beats that amazing feeling that embraces you after taking a long hot shower and putting on clean clothes — exhausted, sun tanned, and happy.

The Beach. It’s calling you.

Photos by Michael Mendell

As the East Coast MoB readers know, the weather this 4^th of July weekend sucked. My family and I could have succumbed to multiple movies, the mall and indoor rock climbing. But Dave and I are weekend warriors. (And we know that three days of indoor family togetherness would put any Fox reality show to shame.) So we did not go gently into that rainy good night! We analyzed the Doppler forecast, saw endless cells of green, red, and yellow spread across the entire region, and packed the boys up for an impromptu road to Hershey Park!

Because even wet chocolate is still….. um….chocolate.

Besides, the boys had been trash talking roller coasters for weeks. Great Bear. Sidewinder. Fahrenheit. Storm Runner. All rides are conveniently illustrated on the Hershey Park website, which has been Noah and Chase’s landing page since Memorial Day. Oh yeah, baby, they were going on ALL of them.

Prior to leaving we discussed height requirements. Any parent of more than one sibling has had that awful moment when the youngest, despite stretching his neck as far as it will go, does not make the cut-off for the “best ride in the entire park”. Not only does he face the fact that his older brother gets to do something he doesn’t, but he has to take the “little guy walk of shame” back down the stairs or through the cattle shoots trying not to cry.

So we talked about whether Chase would make the Twizzler height which was 54″ and would get him onto certain “AGGRESSIVE THRILL RIDES”. Dave counseled him to stand up as tall as he could. I fretted and steeled myself for dealing with the tears.

He didn’t make it. And he fought really hard not to……smile.

It’s one thing to say you’re going to tame every roller coaster at Hershey Park – and another thing to actually have the balls guts to do it. Chase had an out. Noah didn’t need one – he took one look at the AGGRESSIVE THRILL RIDES and said “I’m having second thoughts,” which translates into NFW.

So we went on the calmer rides… like the Sooper Dooper Looper. Twice. As a child going to Hershey Park in the 1970′s the Sooper Dooper Looper was the BIG ONE. I had nightmares about it. There were t-shirts claiming that you survived it. Now it may as well be a freaking kiddie ride. Take a look at their newest coaster – Fahrenheit. This puppy has a 97 degree drop – yeah, that’s right. Going straight down is not enough. This coaster turns you upside down as you are falling.

It just makes me feel ancient. Despite years of competitive gymnastics which I was often upside down at such angles, I will never ride this ride. I can only imagine what Hershey will do to top this — so that years from now when Noah and Chase take their kids to Hershey Park they can call Fahrenheit tame. I can hear it now: “You know son, when I was a boy, they didn’t have roller coasters that ejected you. You stayed strapped in the entire time.”

Post script: It did not rain for a single minute while we were at the park. Because of the foreboding Doppler, there were no lines for the rides. We all got soaked together on Tidal Force and Canyon River Rapids. I screamed a lot which always makes Dave laugh. Both boys happily held my hand for longer than a moment. The park itself is immaculate – even the bathrooms. And, of course, there was chocolate.

Aggressively thrilling – Mommy style.

Traditionally, we’ve done the family vacation. The truly classic American summer family vacation is the camping trip. Below, Rocky Mountain National Park.

The #1 advantage of the family vacation is the togetherness, which is also the #1 disadvantage. Everyone shivers until the fire is built, presumably everyone pitches in to help build the fire. If not, the laggard is shamed by the others into learning a sense of civic responsiblity. In my experience, boys love fire. Period. Building fires, messing with flames, making torches, toasting marshmallows, poking ashes, brandishing glowing-tipped sticks at each other, and dueling with kindling – what’s not to like? Another time, I will post about the hard-wired pryromania of boys. For now, suffice it to say that getting a fire ignited tends to be extremely popular.

If it’s raining, everyone plays games in the tent and goes to sleep at 7:30 PM, which is all very cozy and novel. The kids learn how to help make and break camp. They meet other kids and go exploring.

Long car drives often fail to bring out the best in each family member, but thanks to “isolating technology” like iPods and portable DVD players or built-in TVs (which we don’t have, but some of you lucky people do), peace can sometimes reign in the car. And that is a godsend, no matter how spoiled you think children are today.

On family vacations, you also get some great photos for Christmas cards. I love this one of Hugh: “Twizzler and Glacier.”

Family vacations mean learning new things and making memories together. In England, we gained knowledge about Stonehenge, the pound, and double-decker buses. We visited relatives and had a lovely Easter Egg hunt with some English cousins. Like Madonna, Malcolm even picked up a posh accent. But on this trip, mostly we learned never to take our loud, energetic American children to England ever again. If you’re going aboad with your children (after the dollar strengthens, of course), for God’s sake, do not go to England!!! Take them to Italy where children are adored!!! If you must go to Great Britain, do NOT stay in a B&B, where the owners will wring their hands and fuss over every suspicious bump and thud. Stay in a chain hotel, expense be damned!

The advantages of sleepaway camp are obvious. The family unit is broken apart which provides, presumably, a refreshing break for everyone, with affections restored upon reunion. You can do the Grand Gesture, like friends in Washington DC who turned the guest room into a dream bedroom for their middle daughter, who expected to bunk with her little sister until high school graduation. The thrilling surprise she received at homecoming was made possible only by her rather lengthy absence.

You can have time for Serious Contemplation. Friends in California send their children to sleepaway camp in New England where they can come to know something of the East Coast, ancestral home of their dad. The mom tells me that during the peaceful break when the children are gone, she can think clearly and deeply about each one – their lives, their friends, how to support their interests, how to guide them – in the calm stretches of unbroken time when there is literally distance for reflection, and none of the day-to-day chaos. I love that point.

And sometimes it’s simply not a good idea for parents to try to teach their kids new skills. A camp counselor is a neutral party who, theoretically, doesn’t arouse as much scorn from his or her students as do the parental units.

This year, we are doing a little bit of each approach. We will camp as a family with friends on the St. Lawrence River, and two of the boys are going to sleepaway camp. Your family’s plan/thoughts/summer memories welcome! Emily & I love to hear from everyone, whether we know you personally or not.

Happy Summer!

I’m a Disney hater.

OK, “hate” is too strong a word. But our children have been raised with an unspoken credo:

Trail tromping trumps teacup twirling.

This motto is unspoken because it sounds ridiculous…and also I just made it up. But you know what I mean. None of us have ever been, or wanted to go, to Disney World. And yet when school ends, that’s our destination. We have a client convention there and figured what the heck, might as well take the kids.

Past vacations have been reality-based. We have camped in the end-of-the-alphabet national parks – Yellowstone, Yosemite, and Zion. Pennies were scraped together to take a toddler and a preschooler to Rome when my brother’s family lived there, because missing that opportunity was unthinkable. A pilgrimage was made to England with my mother-in-law, when the boys were 3, 6 and 9, to explore her childhood stomping grounds.

Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of miserable moments in these trips. Our toddler broke his leg in Italy. I tossed and turned in Yellowstone, obsessing that if there was so much as a tic-tac in the tent, our adventure would end like Grizzly Man’s. In England, we endured a one-mile forced march in the rain from the train station to our B&B, dragging luggage and pushing a stroller, one child sobbing that we promised him a trip to the toy store in London and we were mean old liar, liar, pants-on-fire parents if we didn’t take him Lego-shopping right NOW. Never mind that it was night and we were nowhere near London.

But what are vacations without a bit of danger and misery?

Apparently, we’re about to find out.