One Last Weekend

As of today, we are renting the South Haven house. Again. The house has been on the market for almost five years now. The first, we lived in it while hoping it would sell. The second, it sat empty. Then we rented it twice, first to a family for a whole year, then to a friend of ours who was going through a divorce and needed a place for the summer. Last summer, we used it as a "cottage," and this past weekend, we did that again, possibly for the last time. When we pulled the front door shut until the lock clicked yesterday, we knew we might never sleep in it again.

Our friend - the one who went through the divorce two years ago - is renting the house for the next year, with an option to buy it at the end of 12 months for a pre-agreed-upon price, with a portion of the lease money going to the sale price. We'll see if that happens or not (we're not holding our breath, at this point); but either way, we won't be using it any more this summer, and we've given our permission for bathroom tile to be laid and woodwork to be painted, so the house won't look the same next summer, no matter what.

Truthfully, we had such an amazingly wonderful weekend there last weekend that a tiny part of me - the economically-challenged part, apparently - is secretly wishing that we'll get it back next June first. What if, I think, instead of losing money on the sale, we put that money into the house (new roof, some cute-but-cheap furniture, cottage-y paint colors and prints on the walls) and committed to really using it for the next five or ten years? The girls love it there. They don't care that it's mattresses on the floor, camp chairs on the deck, plastic and paper dinner utensils and a lot of take-out food. They love tracking sand everywhere, swinging in the backyard, blowing bubbles on the deck while we drink our morning coffee, driving two minutes to the beach, getting ice cream every day.

I love it, too. I'm sad to say good-bye to the house where Annie was born and where we've had such simple fun with them these last two summers. This weekend, we had three perfect, sunny days in a row and we filled each one with as much summer fun as possible: coloring at the breakfast table; 80's dance party; playing at the park; splashing and digging and flying a kite at the beach; the relief of a grape slushie at 3:30 in the afternoon, when you've been in the hot sun for hours; watching a movie all together on the biggest mattress after we've cooled down and gotten the sand off in the tub; driving to Redamak's for the best burgers and fries; eating on the back deck; pushing them on the swingset; eating ice cream while we walk along the shore; reading, talking and drinking a beer on the deck after the girls fell asleep. When we're there, we're forced to step away from Real Life for a few days. There's no phone, no TV, no schedule. We slow down and focus on each other.

A year from now, we'll either be signing closing papers and bidding an old house good-bye or exploring the possibilities of keeping it for at least a little longer. Either way, it'll be okay with me.

Four Days

(Trying to) Get Away From It All

Last week Wednesday morning, I bribed the girls with two episodes of Little Bear while I frantically packed up everything I thought we might need for half a week at the cottage. By 10:30, we were on the road. We stopped at my parent's for lunch, and my mom read Snow White to the girls on the couch before we drove the rest of the way. The weather was sunny and 80, and I had high hopes for skipping naps, spending hours at the beach with the girls, putting them to bed at night all tired and happy, and drinking a glass of wine on my deck, maybe even getting a little writing done.

But the girls played in the water for twenty minutes, and then they were cooooooooold. They wanted to play on the mooooooooonkeeeeeeey baaaaaaaars. They wanted to "fing." They were huuuuuuuungry. So packed us back up (towels, chair, sand toys, sunscreen, crocs, beach bag) and we went into town to pick up some pizza. While we were waiting for it to be done, we spied a new candy store, and I let the girls fill a plastic baggie with mix-and-match Jelly Bellys for later. We went back to the cottage, ate our dinner, tried one of each color jelly bean, played on the swing set. I did the bath/brush teeth/story/song routine, kissed each of them good-night, shut their doors, and went into my room to change out of my bathing suit.

Suddenly, there's Jemma, standing quietly and casually behind me as I step into my yoga pants. "I vant to sleep in your bed," she says. She has climbed out of her Pack N Play - for the first time ever - and she refuses to go back in her room. There is a mattress on the floor of her bedroom, too, and she wants to sleep there, in "a big-girl bed." Wait, she wants ME to sleep there. Wait, she wants me to "snuggle her" on that mattress. I lie down with her for a minute, stroke her back, sing her the night-night song again, and try to leave.

She throws a fit. I try to make her understand that it is Time For Bed, that big girls STAY in their big-girl beds, but she's having none of it. She's following me out of her room every time I try to walk away calmly. She's making so much noise that Annie starts yelling from her room. "Mom! Make her stop! I can't get to sleep!"

At one point, I settle Jemma in the Pack N Play, then dash back to my room and fake sleeping in my bed, hoping that Jemma will come in, see me "asleep" and conclude that there is nothing left to do but go to sleep herself. Instead, she comes in, sees me, and goes back to her room to retrieve her big blanket, which she lies down with on the wood floor of my room.

I end up lying with her in her room until she falls asleep, which is completely against every sleep philosophy I've ever followed, mostly because I imagine it must be confusing and alarming to fall asleep with your mommy beside you, then wake up hours later to an empty room.

By 8:30, I am on the deck, cracking open a beer and checking my voicemail. It contains a message from the parks and recreation coordinator, informing me that the rooms I booked for Annie's birthday party (for which invitations have already been mailed) may not indeed be available, sorry for the mistake, call her back and let her know what I want to do.

While I'm pondering this, my phone rings and it's the principal of Annie's school for the fall, informing me that, even though she herself assured me earlier this summer that I could call her anytime up to when the class lists came out at the end of August with our request for Young Fives, now that I have actually done so, she is sorry to tell me that there are not any spots left at Annie's school. Our choices now appear to be kindergarten at Annie's school, or young fives at another school. In the afternoons. She is apologetic and patient with my distress, but I have to get her off the phone as quickly as possible, because I am about to start crying.

By the time I get ahold of Jason (who's still in GR with the rest of the week left to work), I'm crying so hard that he later tells me he was afraid someone had died. We have a tearful, inconclusive conversation that ends with me wailing, "I just don't want to make a bad decision for Annie." My back hurts, my mind is spinning, I still have my bathing suit top on. I can't fall asleep that night until after midnight.

The week improves. On Thursday, I take them to the park. We have a better time at the beach. I ruin their dinner with ice cream, which turns Jemma's face completely bright blue. Jason comes eventually, and the weather remains glorious. We pick glorious peaches at Crane's, dig giant holes in the sand, and spend the most time actually swimming in the 70-plus-degree water than I can remember. The Chandlers come down for the day on Saturday, and all the girls get along fabulously. We stop for dinner at the Saugatuck Brewery on the way home, and Jemma dips her finger in Jason's beer. We come home late Saturday night, happy to be back in our own beds, crossing our fingers that Jemma stays in her crib (and her room) better here than there.

On Sunday, we wake up late and take stock of the mountains of vegetables languishing in our fridge, some from our CSA, some from our own garden. We make up a menu and start cooking at 11:00 a.m.; we call all our neighbors and tell them to come over late afternoon, to not bring anything but their forks and their appetites. There is zucchini bread, grilled vegetable salad, asian chicken and vegetables, greens sauteed with bacon, cheesy potatoes, pasta with pesto, and peach cobbler.

My sweet pipe dream of getting away from it all didn't quite come true. Turns out, my little crises followed me there. Turns out, I guess I am that parent, the one who appeals to the district superintendent when things don't turn out the right way for her child (wrote a letter; waiting to hear). Turns out, one of the best parts of our beach getaway was the coming back, the community in our front yard at 5:00 last night gathering around good food and great people.

Imagination

Annie and Jemma have been playing a new game recently. Here's what they pretend:

Jemma is a baby. Her name is "baby Natalie." She sticks her tongue halfway out of her mouth and makes baby noises. She cries a lot.

Annie is the mom. Her name is "Emma." She spends most of her time transferring things from one purse to another, going to concerts, going to birthday parties, and going to Africa. She will be home before bedtime, though.

I am the babysitter. My name is "Miss Kelly." I am to feed baby Natalie lunch, give her a nap, and play with her when she wakes up. I should be careful with her on the swing.

This game has been happening, off and on, for a few weeks now, but it was very big this weekend, while we were at "the cottage." Amidst jumping huge waves, swinging on the monkey bars, having a great dinner with my parents at the new Su Casa, eating ice cream, and showing the house (three times, but NO, surely nobody is going to actually want to BUY IT . . .), the girls played these roles so much that, even today, Jemma keeps correcting me when I address her. Especially if I am directing her or disciplining her, she cops out. "I am not Jemma. I am baby Natalie." She scowls, then sticks her tongue out a little bit.

The funny thing about this is, Natalie was actually one of the girl names I originally liked when we got pregnant with Annie, but Jason would never consider it because of lingering associations with the sort-of-obnoxious-and-not-super-attractive character on the 80's sitcom The Facts of Life. Looks like we got ourselves a baby Natalie, after all.

Another Weekend at the Beach

Our plan was originally to leave first thing Saturday morning for "the cottage," but because the weather was glorious on Friday (and forecasted to be not-glorious on Sunday), we hightailed it down there on Friday afternoon and met up with Nate, Charmaine, and Evie at the beach.  The girls were instant friends.  We played, talked, caught up, cooked some dinner, and opened a few beverages before putting the girls to bed.  Uncle Dennis and Aunt Susie came and hung out, too, and the grown-ups played The 80's Game far, far too late into the night.  

We got to bed after midnight and were awakened at 5:30 by Annie's lusty singing of "Once Upon a Dream," followed by her loud crying when I went in to inform her that everyone was still SLEEPING and she should rest/go back to sleep/Not Make Loud Singing Noises for at least another hour.  We went through a good amount of coffee once we were all finally up, then spent four solid hours out in the sunshine - at the park, at the beach, having a picnic on a grassy spot downtown surrounded by the farmer's market, acoustic guitar music, and lots of classic cars in for the weekend.

We headed home after dinner last night, just as it was starting to cloud over, cool down, and sprinkle, but not before getting Sherman's ice cream, of course.  A whirlwind thirty-some hours, and totally worth the tiredness today.

Compromising, Romanticizing, Improvising

Not to be outdone by Jemma, Annie had to get her hair cut, too.  She wanted it short (like, well above her shoulders).  I didn't.  We compromised.  (At what age do you give your daughter creative control over her hair?)

You would think that it's all giggling and eating watermelon and sunshine around here every day.  You'd be wrong.  (But it was, on Memorial Day.)

So far, we've only had one or two truly gorgeous, sunny, warm "beach days" during our weekends at "the cottage."  In spite of that, we put on our bathing suits and go to the beach.  The girls beg to stay every time we try to leave, so we make one more sandcastle, do one more round of swings/slide/monkey bars, take another walk, eat some more pretzels, re-apply sunscreen, and listen to the sound the waves make for another hour or two.

The lawn really needed to be cut.  I know you're shocked that Jason didn't get right on that, given his penchant for yardwork and all, but it was clearly out of control.  We finally broke down and hired a lawn service after I spent part of the previous weekend crouching in the front yard, trying to trim it with hedge clippers.  (Surprisingly successful; unsurprisingly back-breaking and a good quad workout.)  

We also dug around the bottom of the bag of pretzels to scavenge for salt to put on our corn on the cob and edamame for dinner on Sunday night.  We also hang two beach towels from the curtain rod in Annie's bedroom in lieu of actual curtains and use an old sheet of my parents' from the 1970's as our beach/picnic blanket.  It's pretty bare-bones, down there.  In a good way.