FAMILY

Are We There Yet?

All these years later, I no longer have to threaten to pull the car over

I call him Burrito Boy.

He’s fast asleep — knocked out, really — on the deck of a house near the Atlantic Ocean. While his wife — my daughter — is likely to take in the sand and surf most of the day, he’ll be fine just sacking out underneath the T-shirt quilt sewn together a few years ago, a salute to my retirement and memory of all those years teaching in Room 215.

Welcome to my life, where the kids don’t whine so much anymore — and the adults don’t get all that irritated — these days.

Here we are again, five adults — three millennials, Moker, and me — getting our beach on. And this isn’t the first time we’ve enjoyed one another’s company as grown-ups.

It’s quite a bit different than the old days when we inflated the baby pool so the kids could splash — close to the ocean, but not quite in it. And Moker had to carry the two-year-old down to her prime Queen Bee spot on the beach. She wanted to sit in a “big person chair” but had a distinct dislike for the grains of sand she would have to navigate between her toes to get there.

These days, that toddler is almost 31.

She no longer has an aversion to the billions of warm, rough particles that blanket her favorite seashore but is still incredibly particular when it comes to certain tactile experiences. Chew too loudly, and she’ll go off on ya. And when the kid used to sub for me in Room 215, she much preferred scribbling on the whiteboard to composing her welcome message for my students — “Ms. Nelson will be subbing for Mrs. Nelson today” — with chalk on the ancient blackboard behind my desk. She told me she didn’t like the clicking sound and had memories of a friend eerily dragging her nails across the chalkboard once in second grade.

An important aside: I am partial to that classroom greeting — Nelson for Nelson — aren’t you?

So, we’re back at the beach this week — minus the youngest, who’s on a business trip right now. And no, I can’t wrap my head around that one. We didn’t think that far ahead when the kids were little.

Our vacation agenda then was mostly full of “How to Keep Them Occupied and Out of Whining Mode,” a situation, I’m sure, still all-too-familiar to young parents.

A snapshot of our time so far: I’ve been remonstrated — more than once — for my driving. I’m either going at “Speed Racer” pace, or I’m “toodling in the fast lane” — whatever that means.

Burrito Boy isn’t snoozing — a lot — wrapped up in my T-shirt quilt. Instead, he’s working from home, at the beach, after stringing a 50-foot ethernet cord from our Internet hookup to the room with the twin beds, where our kids spent a lot of time once upon a time, conspiring to stay up late and giggling into the post-bedtime darkness.

“Ms. Nelson’s” hubby has joined us and has proven to be quite self-sufficient. He’s helpful and congenial and apparently has no problems “vacating,” as we sometimes say, down at the shore with his in-laws. Right now, we’re waiting for Moker to come back with donuts, so our SIL thought he’d use the downtime to go to the gym. Someone has to stay in shape around here. And if I’m snarfing those sweet sugar and cinnamon confections, I guess it won’t be moi.

The Eldest still craves the local fish market, but I don’t have to jump up and go fetch her mussels and clam chowder at a moment’s notice anymore. She has Burrito Boy to do that for her.

In the meantime, she’s reading a lot and getting her tan on. And I’ve muted my comments on melanoma, etc., for the sake of peace at the beach.

We’re not doing any boogie boarding, like in the old days, but someone still has to lug the umbrella and all the chairs to and from the beach each day. I, of course, am thankful that I’m no longer part of that detail. Someone rented an ocean kayak. Our two SILs are going fishing on a charter later this week. I promise not to worry — too much.

I still spend time cooking — dinner, mostly — and picking up. But not nearly as much as I used to when the world was very young.

And since we have three millennials in tow, we’ve leaned into the carryout culture, which is fine with me. We had local barbecue last night and pizza a few nights ago. Plus, since the kids are old enough to take care of themselves (we hope), Moker and I are going out to a “fancy” dinner with friends in a couple of days, leaving the younguns to fend for themselves.

Hope to enjoy a good meal out at a sit-down place this week, perhaps with wine and everything. One can always hope, I reckon.

I really miss the youngest, though. She’s always up for a Real Housewives marathon when we’re on vacay. With three men in the house this week, the living room TV has been tuned more to action of the testosterone variety — baseball, soccer, golf.

But I’m down for the NBA finals. Go, Bucks. You betcha!

I’m also certain that if my Baby were here, she wouldn’t be too irritated with my chewing — I’ve learned how to keep my mouth closed after years of telling my kids to do the same — nor my laptop cacophony. I’m apparently a very loud typist. In fact, I’m out on the screened-in porch this morning while I write this ditty. So all would be right with the world, in her book at least.

It looks like we successfully helped the kids navigate elementary school awkwardness and the Wonder Years and have a lot to look forward to, now that they’re adults and all.

Are we there yet? Yes, I think we’ve arrived.