A Household Word
Summer Reading

Even though my family was waiting in the car, I took a few minutes to peruse the book titles and picked one that looked a little racy. After all, my kids weren’t babies anymore. There’s no reason that I shouldn’t be able to read a book while they play in the sand.

To me, lying on a towel, letting the sun warm my back, and getting lost in a good novel is the best use of a summer day. But, for the past 16 summers, the only thing that I have read at the beach is the SPF number on the tubes of sunscreen. My oldest son was born in the summer of 1986. What to Expect When You’re Expecting is still in my beach bag with a bookmark at the chapter outlining the third trimester.

When we pulled into the beach parking lot, the kids helped unload the car. There was a cooler with sandwiches and frozen juice boxes, a bag of towels, beach chairs, an umbrella, extra clothes, a first-aid kit, shovels, pails, Frisbees™, playing cards, three kinds of sun screen and baggies full of chips. I stuffed my new book into the canvas beach bag and grabbed the cooler. The kids helped carry stuff, too. They complained and stopped to rest every few feet.

“Hurry up,” I urged. I wanted to sit down and read my book.

As we trudged through the sand, I saw child-free sun worshipers sprawled on blankets and chaise lounges reading books, reading the Sunday newspaper and reading trendy magazines. I even saw someone with the exact book that I had just bought. “How is it?” I asked her as we paraded past. My children withered with embarrassment but the reader looked up and smiled. “Riveting,” she said. I couldn’t wait.

Whoever coined the phrase “It’s no day at the beach,” obviously wasn’t a parent. Frankly, a day at the beach with my kids – any kids – is no day at the beach. The minute that their toes touch the sand they have immense needs that only I can satisfy. They’re hungry. They’re thirsty. They’re starving to death and dying of thirst. They need to open the cooler. They must visit the snack bar. These are important demands that impede a mother’s ability to even start to read a novel. I doled out sandwiches and chips, applied ointments and outfitted the kids with the sand toys of their choice.

Suddenly it was quiet. No one was whining. The scene was one of utter contentment. I unfolded my chair and grabbed my book. I glanced at the jacket illustration and opened the cover ...

“Mom, I’m bored.” My 8-year-old, Lewis, was looming over me with a plastic shovel in his hand.

“Go build a sand castle,” I suggested. “Collect seashells.”

“Actually, I have to go to the bathroom,” he said. “Number two.”