A day at the beach

It’s the summer holiday, the sun is shining, you are near a beach, a day at the beach is top of your list.  It’s your happy place, you can lie on the warm sand while your children run around and play, building sand castles and dipping their toes in the sea.  Idyllic.

You pack your bag, arming yourself with all of the possible things needed for a family beach day; towels, change of clothes. swimming things. buckets, spades, picnic blanket, drinks and snacks.  Don’t forget the suncream and of course a phone to capture all of those happy family memories.

Everyone is in the car, all smiling at the prospect of the day ahead and then a discussion starts up about sports equipment.  One wants to play cricket, the other football, the other one chips in with rugby .. or maybe boules.  Armed with enough sporting equipment to entertain a whole school, I return unperturbed, nothing is going to spoil the day.

Off we go for the short drive to the beach.  I try to ignore the constant shouts from the back.  “I need the toilet!”  “Are we nearly there yet?” “Have you got my goggles?” “I’m hungry.” It will be fine when we get there.

The beach is in my sights and as I stagger under the weight of our ‘beach essentials’ my helpers have run for the sand, not bothered about helping me carry the stuff to the beach.

Once established on the sand, we lay out the picnic blanket and it blows away, landing on a couple quietly sat reading down the beach.  Apologies made, blanket pinned down, I begin wrestling my children into a coating of suncream.  I avoid looking at the looks from passers-by who probably think I am trying to murder my children, why do they hate suncream so much.  One ends up with suncream in their eyes, another swallows some.  Finally, I cheer and hold up my imaginary WWS (World Wrestling Suncream) championship belt in the air as I settle down to relax in the sun.

The children are temporarily distracted by the sand and I ignore the gentle clouds of sand that keep flying in my direction.  Sandcastles are built and the boys discover a sadistic joy in destroying each other’s and then their sister’s.

Soon the sand is boring and the argument over which sport to play begins.  My relaxation time lasted exactly three minutes as I have to wade in and suggest a dip in the sea.  “Don’t go too deep”, I say hopefully as all three children become dots on the horizon with waves crashing around their heads. Being fully dressed is not really the best fashion combo when I quite literally do have to wade in again, up to my waist to retrieve my over-confident, seemingly deaf children from the water. Of course, I am wearing jeans.  Of course, they will never ever dry.  Of course, I don’t have a change of clothes for myself.  Of course, I am not only soaked but pretty soon caked in sand.  Deep joy.

Pretty soon the children are burying each other in the sand which gives me a chance to sit down for a few minutes.  My bottom has only just reached the ground when my daughter is crying because the boys have buried her so well, she can’t get out.  They find this so hilarious which makes her scream even louder, screeching at the top of her voice that she has sand in her chuchee-foofoo (her phrase for lady-bits).  That immediately stops her brothers from laughing as they look at her in horror.

“Let’s have lunch,” I cry enthusiastically.  Their constant need for food will distract them.  The picnic is looking slightly less appealing now as it is a little warm (who forget to put the ice packs in?).  There are no plates, that would be far beyond my organisational expertise, so with sandy hands, we tuck in.  A waft of freshly cooked chips fills the air and the children look longingly and the people coming across the beach with little bags of heaven.  No, I will not relent, you can’t beat a picnic on the beach, sand and all.  We don’t need chips.  “Can sand kill you if you eat it?”  “NO, but I might if you don’t eat your sandwiches,” I say quietly.

Ice cream is next on the agenda.  A well-earned treat after a lunch of warm, sand-encrusted sandwiches.  Four whippy ice creams and two of my children do the exact thing I always tell them not to do, they bite the bottom off their cones.  Cue a steady stream of ice cream running down their clothes.

“I really need the toilet,” shrieks my daughter.  This means she really needs the toilet, that second.  As she stands up, I realise with horror that the stream of ice cream is now being washed away by a stream of something else.  Her brothers, of course, have to start wailing and shouting like she has  just committed the worst crime in history and we get some horrified looks from the families around us.  Thinking quickly, I grab one of the spades and dig the unwanted puddle into the ground, making a mental note to accidentally forget that particular spade when we leave the beach.

“Can we go home now?” one son asks hopefully.  Having agreed to come on our family day out, he now longs to be reunited with his much-loved Xbox. The other two look at my face hopefully and I realise that our day at the beach has come to an end.  Sighing, I gather all our stuff as the children have once again magically disappeared towards the car.

Photos.  I haven’t taken any photos of our day.  Still, I am pretty sure I will remember the morning where they destroyed sand-castles, nearly drowned, covered themselves in sand and ice-cream, peed in the sand and got sand in unmentionable places.  Then again, this is just a typical day at the beach, isn’t it?

Idyllic my foot.

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