I think we can all agree that the point of a family vacation is for everyone in the family to have a happy time together in a place equally pleasing to exuberant children and weary parents.
This is nearly impossible, of course; something almost invariably gives, whether it is the “happy” part, the “together” element, or the bit about “equally pleasing.”
Yet there’s always that tantalizing statistical possibility that perhaps this year, this time, this particular family will have the yearned-for memorable and defining experience. Huge industries cater to this universal family desire: Aircraft stuffed with hopeful vacationing families are constantly circling the globe; the highways are clogged with minivans clogged with Panglossian hordes.
So it was that a few days ago our ownfamily loaded into the car with sheets and towels and bathing suits and a hundredweight of cookies, preparatory to spending two weeks on the Delaware shore.
The children had been burbling with excitement for ages. They had everything planned. There would be sand castles. There would be body surfing, and boogie-board riding. There would be barbecue, ice cream, fireworks, tax-free outlet shopping (that was the teenager) and a trip to the leering carnies of the boardwalk.
Happier still, this would be our toddler’s first experience of the beach. The older children rejoiced in explaining how wonderful sand and waves are, and, dear thing that she is, she believed them.
“And when we get to the beach…?” one or another would ask her leadingly.
“I’m going to dig out!” she would cry, pretending to brandish a bucket and spade.
And may I say, she did rather well — cheerful when we were stuck in traffic, jolly when we were unpacking — until the awful moment when she stepped on the traitorous sand, inhaled a whiff of the foul salt air, and caught her first glimpse of the surging, terrifying body of the Atlantic.
“I DON’T LIKE THE BEACH! I DON’T LIKE THE BEACH!” she began shrieking, and climbed my leg like a Maldivian going up a palm tree.
“No, no, no!” everyone began soothing, “It’s lovely!”
The boy theatrically took in great gasps of air, “Ah, so refreshing! See?” He dashed down to the water, looking back at her, to show how much fun one could have in such a place. The three other girls picked up handfuls of sand and let them sift between their fingers. “Nice sand! Happy sand!” they cried. Her father kissed her, and while smiling furiously I tried to pry her off my hip, where she had lodged like a barnacle.
The child wasn’t having any of it. “Take me home!” she sobbed, “I don’t like it!”
We decided to try a persuader. She accepted the meringue and quieted down, so it seemed safe to head closer toward the water. The other children had by this point raced off and begun frisking about in the surf. Absently, I gave the toddler another cookie. She had relaxed her grip enough for me to ease her off my hip and into a beach chair, and my husband and I were now putting up umbrellas and laying out towels.
“See?” I said gaily, gesturing at the beautiful scene, and turning to her at last. “The beach is really quite-”
Then we saw what had become of the cookies. This poor little creature, who had been brought great distances in order to “dig out” on a happy family holiday, was hoping it would all just go away. There she huddled with a meringue clamped to each ear, like a Stasi man in headphones eavesdropping on a dissident.
At which point the almost-seven-year-old rushed up, planted her feet in the sand, threw her arms in the air, and yelled, “This is the best vacation ever!”
