A moment to feel small and happy
Taking a vacation with my kids usually ends in tears (for me). But now that they are beyond tantrumthrowing histrionics, it’s time for a traditional Canadian vacation. By this I mean Orlando, Fla. In search of magical family moments and some Muggle fun, we hit the theme parks. My kids love every overstimulated second.
Once we negotiate the parameters of consumer exchange (You only get to buy one souvenir each, kids, and it better be under $30 (U.S.). Do you know what the exchange rate is?), my husband and I enjoy it too.
Butterbeer is addictive. I drink it cold, frozen and ice creamed. We go on rides, most of which are 3D movies come to life, and walk through acres of carefully curated gift shops.
After six days of wondering what it would be like to never shovel snow again, our Canadian pilgrimage is almost complete. Except for one last thing: a trip to the beach.
My husband can’t swim, but is fascinated with the ocean. He tells me about a childhood visit to a beach near Trivandrum, Kerala. It is the southernmost tip of India, where three bodies of water — the Bay of Bengal, the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea — meet. There was something about the experience that has stayed with him since.
“That’s great, honey,” I counter. “But our hotel has a nice pool. It has two of them. And a hot tub. And a boardwalk. Why do we have to drive to the Atlantic Ocean?”
“It’s only 60 miles away. I really want to do this.”
“You mean you really want to use up the gas you prepaid on the rental car.”
We make it to the beach in just over an hour. Since we have a flight to catch in the evening, we are dressed in dark track pants and long sleeve shirts. It is 30 degrees and we don’t have any towels, umbrellas or beach toys, except for two plastic water bottles.
I heroically refrain from pointing this out as my husband looks for parking, then looks for some American change to feed the meter, which does not like our Canadian credit cards. I also don’t tell him that if I had planned a day at the beach, I would have remembered our water shoes.
We settle down on the sand, sitting on our jackets. The beach is nearly empty. My kids, each holding a water-bottle-turned-sand-toy, approach the ocean with their track pants rolled up. My younger son starts mixing sand and water, the foundation for a sand fortress. The older chases waves and skims rocks. My husband looks out across the water, a faraway look in his eyes. We are each in our own world. I lean back and let the sun warm my face.
In science class, I am teaching the “space” unit. We are learning about how far things are from each other and about the solar system. I tell my students that our sun is a small middle-aged star and that in the vastness of space, Earth is a mere speck. They find this a little bit scary. I think about space as my husband and I sit on the edge of the ocean and a continent, watching our sons play and the clouds drift. All the resentment I felt at being dragged here disappears and in that moment I feel something — zen, flow, peace.
There is sunshine on my heart. I am small, and I am content.
During the winter months ahead, I will replay this memory. The one that didn’t require an admission ticket, the one that made me want to zoom in, freeze frame and remember.
Just don’t tell my husband, or we’ll wind up at the Pacific Ocean next. Uzma Jalaluddin is a high school teacher in the York Region. She writes about parenting and other life adventures. Reach her at ujalaluddin@outlook.com.