Eric Stary is determined to get his family to the beach, even if he must first travel through the seven circles of parenting hell.
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When you live in California and you’re a family of six with four small kids you have to go to the beach. It’s mandatory. When you’re 90 miles from a decent beach, and located in The Bay Area, this means traffic.
Our little Saturday started out pretty well. Nobody cried prior to the trip during soccer practice, so we decided the beach was doable. It was late morning. The kids were loaded, the car was loaded, the van was gassed up. NOTE: Four hours of prep work from my wife Cyndi ensured this ready state .
The first half hour of our journey was uneventful, comprised of a few silly comments from the twins and minecraft notes from the boys.
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What a site for the Cali natives, our van with Kentucky plates full of six people screaming as we swerved all over the road.
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Then rather unexpectedly my son Carson started puking. I don’t know if you’ve taken a lot of family drives, but nothing is quite like being on a road trip with the pungent aroma of vomit lingering in your nose. Carson was barfing, Becks, his brother, who happened to be sitting next to him, was freaking out and I was manically looking for a place to get off the road. What a site for the Cali natives, our van with Kentucky plates full of six people screaming as we swerved all over the road. We found a McD’s and started operation clean-up.
It was a precarious spot. We were 50 miles from home, but still 40 miles from the beach. Press on or quit. Quitting is not an option, since we’ve come so far. We’re going to the G.D. beach
My wife, who in all the glory and grossness of motherhood has never learned to embrace the sweet stank of vomit doesn’t do throw up detail, that is Daddy’s gig. So I get Carson out of the van and strip the puke-covered clothes off him. Naked and with an empty stomach he says he’s hungry. Only kids can spew their lungs up then ask for food minutes later.
I continued scooping up puke with baby butt wipes (leftovers from the twins— don’t worry not used) and beach towels. After sufficient mopping, we heaped back in the van and drove on. If you’re a parent, you know once somebody hits the food ejecto-switch you’ll spend the next five hours in a constant state of “are you OK?” “are you gonna puke?” It’s so relaxing.
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Hearing your grumble of “F_cking traffic” is funnier and much cuter echoing out of the mouth of your 4-year old.
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We’d progressed to balls-deep Northern California traffic. Lucky for my carload, I pay attention to my surroundings and directions about as well as I dunk a basketball. So of course I took the wrong exit going BACKWARDS. After fighting our way through puke reek and traffic, I’d driven back around to the other side. See previous note about precarious spot and quitting. I had a slight mini-stroke and dropped a few choice words. Hearing your grumble of “F_cking traffic” is funnier and much cuter echoing out of the mouth of your 4-year old.
While re-traversing the same mile stretch of road, we were again sprung to attention by the sound of dry heaving. It was Becks this time. No result, just heave. What a pleasant noise to hear when you’re trapped with the sour stench of barf in a car.
Two hours in. Still 20 miles from the beach.
We finally arrived in Santa Cruz, but hours later than planned. The parking lots were full, meaning a need to full-on spot-stalk, we slow-rolled behind families, hoping they were leaving.
Eighty-five degrees at home, but a balmy 65 at the beach, the wind was downright cold. No playing in the ocean. Instead we put on hoodies and dumped out beach toys.
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Cyndi put it best…4-year olds are frat boys minus the beer.
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The beach was good to us that day. The sun felt good, the kids were happy. We played soccer and tossed the frisbee, dug in the sand and used our metal detector to find treasure. Some 20-somethings lounged next to us in thongs, thongs! Not to be outdone Gabe dropped his pants, too…and began peeing. Right in the middle of the beach: public urination. The 20-somethings were impressed I could tell. Cyndi put it best…4-year olds are frat boys minus the beer. Eating, fart jokes, touching themselves and calling everybody they meet “Dude” is how they roll.
After several hours at the beach, we were ready to begin the long, slow slog back to the house, but first, pizza.. Before we can get to a restaurant, we hear the chilling yell “I have to go potty.” Most 4-year olds, possessing pea-sized bladders, find themselves in a near-constant state of needing to find a potty. Since my children are also terrified of public toilets (the auto-flushers freak me out, too), we travel with a potty. That’s right, we drive around with a potty.
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Let’s add a bucket of piss to that awesome stale vomit smell.
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Upon getting out of the car at the pizza joint, it’s discovered that Grant has soaked himself and his seat. Let’s add a bucket of piss to that awesome stale vomit smell. We were going to have to burn this van.
My damp son and the rest of my family devour two very delicious pizzas at long last, at least I think they were delicious. By the time they’d arrived, we were licking the Parmesan cheese packets. Hunger satisfied, the children shut up enough so we could finish the drive home.
No peeing, puking, or complaining accompanied us on the return trip, Our Day at the Beach was officially over. Sure, our van smelled like a dead homeless man had been hidden under the floor mats, but we were safe and we reasoned the emotional scars would heal with counseling. All in all, we considered it a pretty successful trip.
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Photo Unedited: Flickr/Michael Bentley
