City kids in the surf

I live less than five miles from the beach. Five little miles from rippling blue water, warm sand and more helado carts than you thought could possibly be in existence.

A few times a week, I drive down Lake Shore Drive, happily soaking up the skyline and stretch of Lake Michigan over my left shoulder. I feel energized enveloped right there in between all of the concrete and steel and lifeguard posts and boats in the harbor. I often look out at the skinny piers stretching out past the pile-ons where seagulls and pigeons perch together and think that I never want to live in a city that is not on the water.

So it must be strange to people from other cities, and perhaps many who live here, that the idea of going to the beach completely escapes me every single summer. Oh, I might think of it a time or two, especially on a warm evening when the humidity sticks to the skin uncovered by my sundress. Or when I see small children and their parents cross the arching bridge over Lake Shore Drive to North Avenue beach just like I did as a kid growing up in Lincoln Park. Or when I wonder how in the world we will possibly break free from the central air in our rented condo in the middle of a neighborhood crowded with dogs and UPS trucks and kids skateboarding and the thumping bass on cars circling the block for a parking space.

The beach, I will surprise myself by thinking. Ohhhhyeahhh, the beach.

But this year, Lil E is in a summer camp with a group of his friends. They spend the morning doing fun activities indoors and spend the afternoons outside, exploring the zoos and conservatory and parks and other places they can duck into shade to avoid the 90-degree temperatures we feel day after day this summer. Every day, I drive past all those beaches, pick him up and retreat past them one more time on our way home. It only took a few pick-ups before the ohhhyeahhhh hit me. And hard.

"Why aren't we going to the beach like every single day after I pick you up from camp?" I blurted that out mid-week when he was sweaty and sucking down a juice box and fishy crackers in his car seat behind me.

"I don't know?" he asked in a question-response.

"Well, let's do that!" I was probably more excited than he was. But he's only been to the beach here a few times before.

"Do you promise we can take our swimsuits, not go in our jeans like that one time?" I promised, nodding shamefully to his memory -- the memory that will drive me to guiltily hand over therapy co-payments to him for years and years -- of the staycation a few summers ago when I was so apprehensive about letting him get in the water that I didn't even bring bathing suits with us just in case it was all OK.

I did give it up and we did play in the water we were soaked, stiffly walking back over that bridge in drenched, rolled up jeans. It was a glorious day, despite my hesitancy. We needed another one.

That Friday, we brought a buddy of Lil E along with us. It was a spontaneous beach play date, so this time, she was without a swimsuit. But she didn't mind getting in the water in her dress, then changing into shorts and a tank of Lil E's I packed as a back-up, then finally wearing a dry sundress of mine like a flowing gown.

I prepared like my mother did back in those bridge-walking beach days. I threw a bunch of toys and towels and snacks and sunscreen (it was Coppertone sun tan lotion back then) into a big bag, pulled on my suit and some shorts, grabbed the kid's swim gear, and ran out the door. We wouldn't have everything -- I was aware of that -- and we would have to squeeze in to find a space for ourselves. But we would have fun. And we would be at the beach, dammit.

Our beach. The one we ignore. OK, it's also the one with sand ground down from beer bottle glass and cigarette butts. It's the one with the occasional Pamper floaty in the bluest of tides. It's the one where skunk weed and Mountain Dew fill the air space around screaming mothers and high school boys with BlackBerrys and bags of Cheetos yelling obscenities while they play bags with rented boards.

But really, it's not bad. Even when it is crowded and littered and loud, it feels like a little peaceful pocket of the city. A peaceful pocket where another generation is learning to filter out the somehow-still-in-existence pop can tabs from their sand castles, but still a little bit of urban nature to navigate.

It was 98-degrees that day and the kids squealed and jumped and raced in and out of the water for nearly three hours. We ate snacks and guzzled water and when we were all heat-exhausted and pink-skinned and crabby, we piled back in the car and went home.

It isn't the ocean. It wasn't a vacation. But it is a beach in our very own city. That's something I really should try harder not to forget.

We'll be back with another friend this weekend. This time, everyone will have on their own swimsuit.

A note about my new city beach mama bag:

Bob at Simply Bags kindly sent me this beach bag, which I used to haul all of our gear to the beach last week and will pack full again this weekend. He asked only that I honestly review the product and, honestly, I wasn't prepared to like this large-sized woven bag so much.

It's cuter on my shoulder than in the pictures (I chose the red and white striped woven bag) and is mercifully lined so clean up was an easy shake out of all of the sand and goldfish cracker dust. I'm not a big fan of the look of the nautical-style rope handle, but it is really durable and I never worried about the weight within the bag straining when I carried it. Most importantly, I fit A LOT of stuff in it -- two extra large beach towels, a lunch bag full of fruit and crackers, three large water bottles, three pairs of kiddie shoes, a small purse, two changes of clothes, a swimsuit, two cans of spray sunscreen and my car keys -- and there was still a little wiggle room for sand toys that didn't fit in another tote bag. Lil E loves to see his own name stretched across it and says it is a reminder to go back to the beach...and SOON (we are, we are!).

Comments

[baby-strollers]

enjoy it.