“A Day at the Beach” by Sarah Kovatch

A summer memory with the children: It wasn’t so long ago, but now even one or two developmental stages past feels like ancient history. That’s how it is in motherhood. An era is a baby tooth, a soft-soled shoe, a three-year obsession with garbage trucks. 

In this summer memory, we are on the freeway, driving to the ocean. Angus and Anna have just finished third and first grade, and I am taking them on a weekday outing to the beach to celebrate the last day of school. 

We were in the season of lasts. There was the last Little League team huddle beneath the lights, the last ukulele practice before the spring recital, and the last scout meeting before the advancement ceremony. During their last week of school, I waded through the collective bittersweetness with my mom-friends and lamented, hand to my heart, third grade done already? They are so old now! I’m not the only one who makes these claims, we all speak in this way. We all think our children are old—especially our oldest. Our oldest child is always unfathomably old, so old it feels wrong.

The season of lasts is not unlike the holidays, busy and rejoicing. And so, fueled by weeks of festivities, Angus and Anna hop into our minivan wearing brand-new bathing suits, singing and gleeful. But even though they have just finished first and third grade, they cannot sustain their excitement for the 45-minute journey to the beach. Glee frays, even with the most promising mission, and the first sign is restless wiggles—innocuous at first. Then bored, loathsome complaints, and of course, hunger for a snack that will have to wait. Then a world war between booster seats and,

“WHEN CAN WE BE THERE!”

We exit the freeway and cruise around the beach village, searching for day-long parking. The children are oppressed prisoners and I am a ridiculous adult, and they let me know it. 

“MO-OM, HURRY UP!” 

How dumb I am, the way I must follow the conventions of a four-way stop sign and residential-area speed limits. What was I thinking, passing up that huge empty space by the fire hydrant? At last, we locate a parking spot and seatbelts unclasp. They think they are free when they hop out and inhale the sea air but no, they must endure the brutality of sunblock. Their squeezed faces; their smeared skin; their burning eyes and, 

“THAT HURTS ME!”

Then my arms are a rack for no fewer than seven tote bags, and we start off into the sand to scope our spot. A few paces in and we’re shaking off the drive, inward and occupied with our own observations and sensory adjustments. We explore the sand with our toes. Our pupils dilate to accommodate the flood of sunlight. The distant, steady roar of the waves grounds us like a metronome, bringing our spirits to center. 

I survey the sparkly water and the vast cartoonish blue all around us and feel a surge of awe. A recurring thought that often strikes when I’m out and about in the world with the kids hits me once more: I can’t believe I’m raising children in this land. There is pride and optimism in that thought, and also overwhelm for all that’s unfamiliar to me, ever the Midwesterner. It feels both sturdy and shaky, a startling reminder that I’m the adult, their leader—I’m the one in charge here. 

I break our silence and declare, “What a gorgeous afternoon,” wanting to pin words to feeling. No one responds and I shrug. 

And so, accustomed to being the odd man out at this particular party, I silently savor the simple pleasure of experiencing son and daughter in this awesome light. I take in Anna’s brown back, how she holds herself straight as an arrow, and the uncanny blonde streaks in her dark curls. I take in Angus’s knobby elbows and knees, and his translucent ears that sweetly stick out and catch the sun’s glow—a touch of angel within all that devil. Perhaps they too have a surge of awe. Perhaps they contain a full-on orchestra of feeling because suddenly, they can’t be stopped, they must run— 

“COME ON, ANNA!”

They break away from my side in a sprint. It is instinct.

I feel the whoosh of their bodies spring forward in slow motion. I watch my daughter’s shoulder blades slide up and down with precision. I take note of my son’s kinetic energy, his pent-up inner-motor set free to fire away as it was designed to do. Here on the beach, with the backdrop of blue, I can see them as machines and as souls all at once. 

I am wearing an olive-green canvas bucket hat (for it is the longstanding era of my bucket hat) and beneath the brim I track them with my eyes. I feel the empty space they occupied just one millisecond earlier. The cool quiet on my skin is palpable. 

In my version of motherhood, I am alone with these two human beings more often than not. And so there is a greedy, guilty sense of relief in the rare moment they don’t need me and they run off to occupy themselves. I get a hit of that peace now and sigh. Sometimes, sighing is how we women breathe. 

But there is something else in my quiet relief. A fullness in my chest, my own orchestra of feeling. It is the awareness that they are driven by a propeller all their own, and that their lives are theirs alone to seize. Like them, I easily forget that we are all separate beings. They are still so often on top of me, the smell of their scalp and breath, right there. But for the moment, I am just in the background, like this gorgeous afternoon. 

I set my sight on a clear patch of sand near the lifeguard tower and make a bee-line. I claim our spot and stretch myself out on my towel, feeling indulgent to simply stop moving and drop to the ground. Then, propping myself up on my elbows, I watch big brother and little sister race into the surf over and over again. Their only thoughts seem to be the sensations they are feeling: Hot sun. Cold water. Wet face. Tall wave. Big world. A rush of adrenaline manifests into a scream and a laugh for no reason. This is awe. This is innocence. They are so young. 

While they splash and play, I squint my eyes against the sun and wonder about riptides and stingrays and all I don’t know about this land I wasn’t born to but my children were. The moment they opened their eyes, they were already here. They know it like that. And today, they take it all for their own: the land, the water, the freedom of the summer. Leaping and shrieking for joy, for the pure thrill of the sea, for the edge of the Earth, for life itself.

Featured art: “A Wave of the Feels” by Virginia Sitzes

Sarah Kovatch grew up moving around the Midwest. She received her MFA in Creative Writing at Oregon State University in 2005. After many years authoring text books and copywriting, she now works as a therapist. "A Day at the Beach" is part of an essay collection about motherhood and family life. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two children, and beloved rescue dog.

Virginia Sitzes is a printmaker, painter, and muralist living and creating in Oklahoma City. Originally from Denton, Texas, Virginia received her BFA from the University of Oklahoma where she studied printmaking and painting. She has exhibited, as well as taught workshops, across Texas and Oklahoma. Her work has been featured in Art Focus magazine, Oklahoma Gazette, The Gayly, The Tulsa Voice, and the “Inspiring Conversations OKC” and “Whatcha Makin’?” podcast. Virginia is also an active arts organizer. She co-founded the emerging artist collective, Art Group OKC, and has curated various pop-up shows in houses, alternative art galleries, and non-traditional venues.