About April, Rusty began asking if we were going to go to Disneyland this summer. Since I can’t ride the rides pregnant, there was no doubt about it … no, we weren’t. But, in an attempt to not completely ruin his summer before it began, I told him that we WOULD be going to the beach. And the count down began …
Rusty had only been to the beach once … when he was 9 months old … in Mexico …
… so I wasn’t exactly sure if this tactic would work, but it did. Rusty was ready for the beach.
We went to Huntington Beach and we kept the boys watching for that first glimpse of ocean. Making them wait while we parked and unloaded was torture …
I was feeling a bit queasy that day, so I planned to spend most of my time under the umbrella and just enjoy their excitement. However, after their first few minutes in the waves, I had to call them all back to put on their life jackets. Kevin couldn’t save all 4 and I was too far and too waddle-y to help much if necessary. Pregnant worry-wart!
I can’t say they all loved it. Rusty spent a lot of time with me playing in the sand. He liked the water, but the sand was more his speed. Ricky would have spent all day in the waves. Thank heavens for that life jacket because that boy had no fear!
It started out a bit overcast and there was a breeze, so warming up time was necessary.
We made a sand castle complete with seaweed moat …
I made a sea turtle … which met an early death thanks to an unwatching teenager who stomped through our area!
We ate our picnic lunch …
We watched what the boys called “flying commercials” …
People had to be buried in the sand – starting with Tommy …
Then Billy …
And more and more water time …
At one point Ricky declared, “Grandpa Brent’s pool is NOTHING compared to this!”
Maybe we should go to the beach a bit more often!
Rusty was obsessed with numbers all summer – “how many days until we go to the beach?” “how old are you?” “how many days until the new baby comes?” On the drive to CA, he was particularly interested in how old Grandpa Brent and Grandma Jeanne are. Yet, I was still surprised into laughter as we drove home from the beach and he declared, “I’m Grandpa Brent’s wife. I’m 64 years old.” Okay, son. Whatever makes you happy!
One reason NOT to go to the beach very often is my albino family! I picked up some color, but didn’t burn. The boys all kept their rash guards on and only got a little color on their faces. And then there was Kevin. As we ate lunch, he took his rash guard off. I offered sunscreen (let that be duly noted) but he said he wanted to get a “little color” (let that also be duly noted). He only had it off about 20 or 30 minutes, put it back on and played with the boys some more.
As we packed up to hike back to the car, Kevin took the shirt off again. The walk was really only 15 or 20 minutes max. However, my husband got himself a “little color.” I like to call it “bright red.” The poor man. It didn’t really blister, just those tiny air bubble kinds, but he put off heat from his back and shoulders for nearly a week! He hurt and then he peeled. Oh the peeling! We called it the “Peel Poppy” game and the boys actually kind of liked it! (this picture was taken 6 days after our beach day)
Will we do the beach again? Absolutely!
Will Kevin ever take his shirt off at the beach again? Most likely not.