Everything Is Better At The Beach. And Then You Come Home.
It's so hard to fall back into the nitty gritty day to day nonsense after a long weekend at the beach. I don't care how warm it is outside, how beautiful the weather is or how many cups of coffee you've had that morning, nothing and I mean nothing, beats waking up at the beach, looking out over the bay and spending the day chasing your boys up and down the coastline.
Coffee tastes better at the beach. Regardless of how many times someone woke up over night, sleep feels better at the beach. Life is just, well, better at the beach. Even if it took you five hours and five pull-off's to get there. Ahem, Maclane...
If you follow me on Instagram, #mfamilybungalow catalogs our trips down to my husband's family house on the bay. What was once a well-loved yet sorry excuse for a beach cottage (we're talking four "rooms," exposed nails and peeling lead paint) has now been beautifully transformed into a Pinterest-worthy Nicholas-Sparks-novel beach house.
My in-laws spent the better part of the last year overseeing the construction and every little last detail of this house and we are truly a blessed family to have such a gorgeous place to escape to for respite from the day-to-day grind. Both my husband and I agree that we are insanely jealous that our boys will have the luxury of spending childhood summers at the beach, something neither of us were ever privy to.
We also agree that we'll vicariously through them until they are old enough to tell us to get a life which at this rate will only be a few years from now.
Although I begged and pleaded with my husband to stay just a bit longer, deadlines loomed and work beckoned and it was time to head home. We're in the process of settling back in now, the laundry is being laundered, the boys being their crazy boy-ish selves and I'm, well, still sulking a bit.
Let's call it The Post-Beach-Funk. I has it and I has it bad. Is there a cure? Or is the only remedy a return trip and immediate-stick-age of feet in the sand and salt in my hair? Maybe I'll try sitting in the boys' sandbox out back.
Fake it 'til you make it, no?
There has been so much I've wanted to write about here in this space. Nothing earth-shattering or mind-blowing, mind you. Most of it, likely, things that wouldn't even matter to you or captivate you. But there's things I've been jotting down on desk calendars and stickies. Things I've been meaning to write about for weeks.
Some of these things I want to relive. Moments with my kids, the funny things Carter says. How he's growing into such an awesome little buddy. How I can't believe he's about to turn three years old and how it's undoubtedly my favorite age ever in the whole wide world save for the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde moments.
Other things I want to harp on, like how I'll never be that effortless beauty you see walking the beach with her hair perfectly tied up in a knot, bronzed, leggy and with perfectly sculpted arms and calf muscles. Rather, I'm the girl with sand in her hair, parts of her more soft and squishier than sculpted and toned with baby-bang fly-a-ways whipping against her cheeks.
Until then, this post will have to do. A semi-whiny, mostly-sulky recap of our weekend.