In many ways, it made perfect sense to take our four young children on a “just beach” vacation.  When I told the kids what we planned, they looked at me skeptically but I gently reminded them of the horrors of family cup sharing, the stifling heat, the claustrophobic crowds, and the maze of lines at Disney.  So, it wasn’t long before I won them over with enticing tales of an endless sandbox nestled against serene blue waters. They were even more impressed with the “yes” instead of the normal “GD NO” purchases at the dollar store; we left with gobs of goggles, buckets, flippers, and boogie boards.  If the item resembled a beach toy, I bought it. There was no end to my madness.  While packing, I dreamily envisioned our car filled with contented faces, karaoke, and peace abound.  Little did I know that what was in store for us was “Armageddon ‘11.”

Our oldest, Reese, coined the term for us in route when the first of the critical injustices occurred. He swiftly filed a grievance and we were made to listen to the ever-growing list for hours.  Through remote areas of Alabama, he could not get an internet signal; therefore, he could not play his online video game.  Didn’t we know that actual battles of life and death were waged when he was logged off the site?  While in the car, he was forced to sit in near proximity to one of his three siblings without poking, prodding, or provoking in any way shape or form. Impossible.  In the midst of our van screeching through desolate areas at top speeds, he was forced to listen to his dad and me play “Name that 80’s Tune.” Things really came to head when Ray and I began to hold hands and swoon to a love song that took us back to a carefree pre-minivan era.  This was too much.  Under the weight of the forced imprisonment, what ensued was a volcanic burst of “you guys are gross” which ultimately lead to a repetitive hysterical bout of    “I HATE FAMILY VACATION.” But in Reese’s bubbling incoherent eruption what we all heard was “this is Armageddon.”  And indeed, it was.

When we finally arrived at our beach house in the black hours of the night, I collapsed. Reed and Roark somehow found me and in panicked voices said “Sissy is crying! Sissy is crying!”  Since their idolized Sissy was not allowed to cry, I dragged my weary self to find her hiding in a corner of the bathroom.  Through her choked sobs I understood that she didn’t appreciate the sleeping arrangements.  No room of her own so subsequently no TV or bed of her own. The prior arrangements of bunking in the living room on a sleeper sofa near Reese “who is already farting and touching me with his wart” was no longer her ideal. With much calm discussion at 2am, we finally decided that she would bunk with Reed and Roark in their room. She would run the full show, operate the TV/ DVD player, and alternate nights in each bunk bed with each brother.  The little boys positively glowed. After three matches of “rock, scissors, paper,” Reagan settled in with Roark for the first night and I was able to stagger back to my bed.  I passed into a coma-like sleep but awoke with little room in the bed as both Ray and Reese were staking claim in my area.  Apparently, Reese couldn’t figure out the sofa bed so he took refuge in the only spot where he would still be welcome, or the very least, not thrown from the room.

In the morning, however, as we opened the shades, the sun burst into our eyes, the roar of the surf filled our room, and complete serenity overcame us.  Reed looked out at the rolling white dunes, and in his precious wonderment exclaimed “Mama, how does it snow here?” As I drew him into a loving embrace, we laughed softly and harmoniously. Yes, Reese called him stupid, twice, but I acted deaf to his insults; after all, it was a new day. Everything seemed well with the world, until Ray went down to the water.

Seaweed. Our promised crystal blue waters were green, and not just a little green, a lot green.  Apparently this phenomenon occurs yearly and just happened to occur in our week.  The vacation brochure certainly didn’t mention this possibility and when I nonchalantly brought up the seaweed in conversation with our year-round neighbor, she lamented “It sure does stink for y’all.  Our waters are normally so pretty.”  This time was also a brave moment of motherhood.  I frolicked through the disgusting mass of slime even though I was sure that beneath it a creature of grotesque stature lie in wait to suck me under and carry me away.  When I could take no more, I sprinted out of the water and feigned a cheerful “Bet you can’t catch me!” After we got out of the water and took off our bathing suits, it looked as if we were science experiments. Furry patches of seaweed attached itself like superglue to our bodies; I found it in places it should never be found and no amount of washing could get the funky overripe salad smell from the swim suits.  Great green globs clogged the drains and I spent hours picking it out of the bathrooms to ensure the return of our deposit.   The kids spent more time in the outdoor shower than in the ocean which moved me to put toiletries outside as well.  Whatever works.

“Let’s go down to the beach” became the phrase that sparked awful crying jags. Not one to admit defeat, I offered the “Let’s go play in the sand.”  Next, incredulously, “Sand, who doesn’t like sand?” The reply, “Mom, it is just sand. That’s all. We’ve seen it.”  Anyway, Reesezilla refused to let sand castles gain any height at all. The dollar toys didn’t make it past  over-zealous digging and they littered the walk-way from the beach like a Hansel and Gretel path of salvation to the air-conditioned house.  Despite copious amounts of sunblock, the kids still burned in oddly shaped patches and rashes ran freely over delicate areas.  Walking was excruciating for the boys who were introduced cruelly to the phenomenon of gaulding and no amount of “manning up” could make them work through the pain.  If we made it to the beach, one of the boys would inevitably lose his suit, my husband would lose his mind, and we would make the long walk of shame back to the house.  Throughout the week, I found myself making deals that I knew were not good for me; deals that would haunt my motherhood for years to come.  Yet, these were desperate times that called for, as they say, desperate measures.

However, during the week, suddenly the seaweed parted and a patch of blue water appeared.  All six of us crowded into a small clear area of water furiously trying to rub the seaweed from our bodies as we were slowly enveloped again and again in the greenness.  But really, the vacation is symbolic of our everyday life – Armageddon interspersed with patches of calm. When I am in the thick of our life with bills, frenzied schedules, sickness, unfinished homework, and sleepless nights, I forget that it is this life I love.  It is amid the chaos that I see my children for the miracles they are and my eyes fill with tears and I tremble at the ferocity of emotions I never knew were possible.   It is in these moments that I know Armageddon does not rule my life, love rules my life, and I know that the clear patches of blue make all the seaweed worthwhile.