we went to the beach

In the very last gasp of summer, because I wanted to and because I'd told them I would, I took my babies to the ocean. And I fell in love with everything all over again. 

Every thing: these salty children, this warm sun, countless sea-smooth and perfectly colorful stones, the sea herself: so angry and so soft. And also: my lover back home, the daughters I long to truly belong to (and to share this love of sand, and of salt and of wind with), and even: the other mother of my sons, she who once was here, also, reading her book, laughing, collecting treasures, beside me, marveling at the joy of these children who were born of our love.

I expected to feel alone, to feel like the single mother with all so many children, bogged down with bags of towels and snacks, beach chair hanging off one shoulder, toddler monkeyed on hip, 4-year-old grasping at belt loop. And I did. I saw their eyebrows rise, and then furrow, as they tried to figure me out, those other families on the beach.

And at first I thought: shit, dude. This is a mess. And then, in the next breath, as the next loud and lusciously alive wave crashed against the shore, I claimed it: I am the single mother with all so many children, and I am so happy to be here. And I busied myself with doling out granola bars, and applying sunscreen, and photographing my babies as they played with their most favorite ocean friend. 

We always loved the ocean in the old life, and we loved it just as much in the new life.

We slept together, the four boy-children and I, in a cozy nest of a bed in our sweet family tent. We all slept solidly and comfortably, and then woke up early to head back to the beach. And at the end of our second, long, sunny day, we packed into our sandbox of a minivan and drove all the way back home. And it was past 10:00 when I dropped them off at their Mama's house, and apologized for their still-salty hair, and kissed them each on the forehead, and then turned the car around, and drove straight to town, and to her house, where I slipped easily back into the arms of my beloved.

And she breathed in my ocean smell, and protested my desire to shower it off, and listened while I told of starfish and humpback whales, and lobster rolls eaten on the bay-side. And we dreamed of next summer, when we might all go back, and be a family in-love-with-the-beach, together. And we dreamed of the summer after that (or after that, or after that?) when we might all go back: all the mamas, and the papa, and whoever else wants to be a part of it when we get there.

Sometimes, the ocean is really, absolutely enough. 

We really are going to make this work, aren't we?