The year that I was 14, I made a boyfriend at the beach. He didn’t know I was awkward, because who looks awkward in a killer blue bathing suit? (With glasses on since my astigmatism in the early 90′s didn’t mesh with contact wear.) Okay, so I was awkward, but I was apparently the only girl on our stretch of beach. He was cute with a deep, gorgeously thick Southern accent. I’ve Facebooked him. He doesn’t seem to exist anymore.

On our first day at the beach last week, we were playing in the “Little Water.” It’s what we call the tidal pool made by a sand bar when the tide goes out on The Point at Emerald Isle. It’s perfect for younger children. And parents. And grandparents. Really, it’s just perfect. A mom with a Green Bay (…) visor on struck up a conversation. She had a five year old, like BigBrother, and an adorable little 18-month-old who thought he was Big Stuff. We got to talking about how everything changes with the second child. “You wanna eat sand? Okay buddy! It’s fiber!” We laughed and compared mothering war stories. We shared what we do. We had the insta-beach-bond. Our five-year-old boys played together. It was awesome.

And then she went home.

I was sad, I’ll admit. It’s been awhile since I’ve made a beach friend. The past few years, I’ve been busy uber-entertaining two little boys who were too young to entertain themselves. But as they were busy splashing each other, building sand castles and chasing fish, I had time to sit, read, float and make a beach friend. But she was only in for an extended weekend. And she left. And I didn’t make another beach friend all week. Especially not with the two moms who laughed as their four sons pushed BigBrother under the LittleWater as they attacked him with inflatable sharks. (By the way, I totally did a non-slow-motion Baywatch beach run to stop that nonsense. In a bikini. Oh yeah.)

The only thing I know about my beach friend is that her name is, amusingly, Jen. I told her I blog and that I work for BlogHer, so maybe she’ll find me. But beach friends are best at the beach, just like camp friends work best at camp. The boys made a few beach friends over the week, but most of the kids on our stretch were a bit older. A few did help them search for fish and crabs a couple of times, but they were in a gaggle of cousins and had beach friends built into their stay. LittleBrother did take a picture of a little girl he thought was cute (and she was), but she was too busy to notice as he stood and watched her walk away.

These are the random people who make it into our family vacation photo albums. I don’t know if they’ll remember the friends they made this year as much as I remember that first little boy I picked up on the beach. But I’m sure they’ll make more beach friends next year. And I hope to as well.

Last year, they played together. But they stood in front of us on our beach chairs and whined: “Will you build a sand castle with me?” Or, “LittleBrother smashed my castle!” Or, “Is it time to go in the Big Water yet?” Or, “I’m huuuuunnnngry.” And our heads would explode, but we would oblige because that’s what good parents do on vacation at the beach. They sit in the sand — and get sand in places that sand should not be — and build 80 million sand castles that will be stomped on post-haste. They take the kids in the Big Water even though they’ll ask to go back to the Little Water in 5 minutes. They fish out sandy snacks. They carry tired, crying kids back to the beach house, wrestle the children out of sandy bathing suits and wash out the sand glued to their scalps — gently.

But this year? They have been building their own sand castles… and smashing them together. They run down to the Little Water and pull each other in the surf. They put on their swimmies and swim and swim and swim in the Little Water. They chase the seagulls away… together. They sit on the raft and float out to sea (which obviously involves some adult standing around and pulling them back every 10 minutes). They search for shells. They try to catch fish with the net and bucket. They argue, but they play.

It’s freaking heavenly.

I said to FireDad that the next handful of years (plus) should be great. They will play together. They will get in trouble together, too. But they’ll play. And build. And swim. And float. And we’ll join in, but we won’t have to provide the entertainment. Shortly after this discussion, a pair of brothers walked down the beach. The older one was slightly shorter and more broad shouldered than the younger one. The older one had darker hair and a better tan. The younger one was quite thin, light haired and super pale. My mom and I joked, “Look, it’s future BigBrother and LittleBrother.” And, so, apparently someday they will walk down the beach scoping for hot girls.

But I will always remember them this way.

I mean, sure, things had gone wrong while we were on vacation. BigBrother got a splinter in his toe. I managed to get a sunburn on my belly since my stomach hasn’t seen the sun since 2002. My mom got hit by a monster wave and lost her sunglasses and favorite pink hat. I caught a bagel on fire and made the smoke detector go off before everyone was awake. I got a computer virus (it got fixed) and lost an entire memory card to it (it was not fixed). The cheap shirts we bought for the boys at Wings ruined with the first washing. There were some minor disagreements.

But, really, I was smug. Because despite all of those minor inconveniences, which mostly ended up being humorous in the end, our vacation was amazing. As we made the long drive back home, FireDad and I were rehashing how great our week had been. Just enough sun and heat, with a rain shower here and there that made us go inland to the awesome Maritime museum. Really, really good food. I got in some nice almost three mile runs. The moon was full and my husband and I enjoyed a cliched moonlit walk on the beach. We laughed at stories and new memories we created. We talked about plans for next year. Yes, we were feeling smug.

And then our truck sputtered and stalled on VA-37 just outside Winchester, Virginia. Which, by the way, is the birth place of Patsy Cline. That didn’t make me feel any better.

I might have cried. More than once. My husband had that feeling where you know you aren’t going to throw up but you know it would feel better if you did. What went wrong with our truck (fuel pump) and how much it cost us to get it fixed ($$$) doesn’t really matter.

Because somewhere in the gloom and doom of a totally unplanned (and expensive) misadventure, we learned a few things.

• Being safe is all that matters. When I called my parents’ cell phone, who had just split off from us to head their direction home, my mom’s initial fear was that we had been in an accident. We had all witnessed and nearly been involved in a bad accident earlier in the day on I-95. A broken down car is a billion times better than an accident in which someone gets hurt.
• Children think misadventures are grand adventures. We had never stayed in a hotel with the boys prior to being stranded along side the road. They jumped on the bed (normally way off limits), watched baseball in bed and ate Captain Crunch at the coffee table in the morning. They thought it was super swell. I have to admit… the bed was mighty comfy.
• The kindness of strangers is amazing and uplifting. Shortly after we coasted to a stop, a truck pulled up behind us. The wife was driving while the husband was spotting deer. They waited with us not just until my parents arrived, but actually drove my brother and sister-in-law to the nearest hotel in a caravan as we were short seats without the truck. They refused a monetary tip and disappeared into the growing night. The hotel went out of their way to help us, even allowing us a late checkout without an additional fee as our truck was still being worked on. The bartender gave me a double for the price of a single when she heard our story. I greatly appreciated that gesture.
• There’s no place like home. Once the truck was running and we hit the road — tentatively — we made good time on our last — belated — leg home. I’ve never been so happy to see our city. I’ve also never been so happy to walk in my front door. Or sleep in my own bed.

And so, while the voodoo doll sticker might have thought she was going to derail my whole vacation, she was sadly mistaken. Yes, it was an expensive side trip. Yes, I would have rather just made it home when we initially planned to do so. But it didn’t ruin our vacation. We’re already laughing about it. It’s now just another funny story in our long-list of funny stories from Vacation 2010. I’ll include a couple pictures in our annual photo book. In 20, 30 or 40 years, we’ll start off a story, “Remember that time we broke down on the way home from the beach?”

And I hope I do.

They look so much older than last year. To go along with that, they’re also louder than last year. And they eat more than last year. And they stay up later than last year. But they still wake up just as early. Yay.

At least they’re just as cute, if not even more so.

This is fun.

This is cute.

This is what I — no — we needed.

This is vacation..

Good choice.

Today is supposed to be lovely and wonderful. Crossing fingers, sun-blocking up and hitting that beach!

_
[Another giveaway: Go tell me your favorite cereal(s) for a chance at $100! Now, excuse me, I'm going back to the beach.]

We’re having a lovely time even with computer virii, borked memory cards and some storms. More photos… eventually.

I need this vacation. We need this vacation. In fact, I defended this vacation on the Today Show blog. So, let me tell you: I’m gonna rock this vacation.

GO.