mom life | Good Times with Jess

I’m officially the age when I can’t remember how old I’m turning, but I’ve figured it out just in time. 44! I can no longer claim early forties.

The other day Captain was hard pressed to remember what town we live in, so that’s what happens in your fifties.

BB, my first baby, is 10! I don’t know if it’s harder to believe she’s 10 or that I’ve been living this mom life for 10 years now.

I’ve been living this blog life twice as long and it has taken me twice as long as usual to get a post out.

Decamping for the Cape, a holiday weekend and two birthdays will do that to a person.

Plus there’s limited early morning peace for me on the Cape, which is my ideal writing time.

July 4th I set my alarm, but I didn’t even need to. I popped up on my own at 5:45am.

Last July 4th I got to the beach at 6:30am. There were plenty of waterfront spots open, but someone was already in “MY SPOT.”

I was not about to let that happen again. I understand it doesn’t really matter, but it matters.

There’s always room on our private beach, BUT that would mean having a wall of people between us and the water.

No thank you.

We’re the second house from the beach, so if I’m awake, there’s really no reason not to drag some chairs down. I could be writing at 6am or I could be making sure I have MY SPOT.

Not only did I set up my spot at 5:52 am, but our dear friends had left their cabana with me, so I set that one up too.

I offered to put up the cabana of our other wonderful friends who haven’t joined us for the 4th before, but they declined. They said he was getting up early anyway, so he’d be down before I would.

To each his own, but I wondered to myself, “How is he going to know where to put the cabana? He doesn’t know where MY SPOT is.”

I also thought, “Jessica, you’re being ridiculous.” But also, “If he picks the wrong spot, I’m not deviating, so if they spend the day several cabana spaces away, so be it.”

I’d like you to know that at 5:52am I was NOT the first person setting up shop, but you know I got my spot.

Also my presence has become a barometer of sorts. Our friends in the waterfront house told me that when she sees me, she tells her husband,

“Jess is down there!” And he knows it’s time to put chairs out.

Without me, people would have to rely on their own time-management skills.

On July 4th, just as I was finishing setting up our two cabanas, the third friend showed up. His wife had warned him not to get there before I did, because he wouldn’t know the spot.

I have never felt so seen. There’s a correct spot and everyone knows there’s a correct spot, even if they’re not sure where the correct spot is.

It’s a residents’ beach, so everyone has a spot and if you’re not in “your spot” everyone will ask why you’re sitting somewhere else. And everyone will feel compelled to explain why they’re sitting somewhere else.

If someone you were hoping to sit with sits somewhere else, it can really throw off the whole day, because then you need to decide whether it’s more important to sit in the spot you want, or with the people you usually sit with.

Sometimes the people you usually sit with divide and some people are in one spot and others are in another spot and then it really becomes clear where people’s allegiances lie. Or it may signify only their tolerance for high winds versus protection up by a dune.

July 4th is another story. I don’t know where all the people come from, but they’re not around the rest of the summer. And they take up a lot of spots.

When I was a lifeguard on these beaches, the head honcho was the Recreation Director. There must’ve been a reorg because now there’s this guy walking around:

If I were looking for a summer side hustle, and if it were possible to be the Beach Director for just my specific beach, I’d be interested.

I know the Beach Director is not in charge of making sure people sit in their “correct” spots, but I’m sure they could if they wanted to.

All anyone has to say is, “Piping plover” and the prime spots clear out.

Now that the 4th is over, I’m back to a relaxed morning setup. But not so relaxed I have time to sit and write. Nor am I setting my alarm to catch the earliest writing window.

When BB meanders out around 7am, she asks,

“Did you take the stuff to the beach?”

Unless it’s terrible weather, that’s just about all I need to hear to get a move on.

It might be possible to write a blog from my spot on the beach, it is a great spot, and conducive to many things, but writing does not seem to be one of them.

My favorite spot to write is in my corner of the couch. The only person I’m fighting with for that spot is a very feisty cat.

Can’t quite see my spot from here. It’s a little bit to the left, on a good day. 😉

The owner of my agency recommends at least one travel conference a year. I was accepted to one in Sardinia.

Before and after the conference, there are familiarization trips. I was accepted to one of those, too! Once I’m there, I might as well scope out the whole island.

I was worried that being gone for two weeks would be too long. Captain offered,

“How could you not do it?”

That’s right! How could I not? And without a second thought I confirmed everything.

Now that I see the calendar for the next two weeks, please wish my family luck.

Between my two children there are: 6 swim practices, 2 swim lessons, 2 artistic swim classes, 6 soccer practices, 4 Hebrew school classes, 2 drama kids classes, 2 curriculum nights, one day of school pictures, and a side of Rosh Hashanah.

Putting that in all in one sentence may have been a mistake. We sound like crazy people.

I swear it feels more manageable on a day-to-day basis. Although I’ve only been doing it for one week, and now it’s someone else’s problem.

Monday night I was headed into Boston for work, and Captain, BB, and RB were headed to RB’s soccer practice. I said,

“Don’t forget you need a soccer ball and two chairs.”

They left with three chairs and no soccer ball.

So that’s how I anticipate the next couple weeks may go.

The other morning I was sitting on the couch with my coffee, a hotel website open in front of me. RB snuggled up, saw my computer, and said,

“Again?!? I thought you retired.”

Just getting started.

After this Sardinia trip, I was accepted for a ski trip in Austria and Switzerland. Which brings me back to our recent visit to the ski store.

Thirteen years ago I met Captain skiing. We skied as much as possible. I invested in new ski boots. They were comfortable, performed well, and were a pretty white-turquoise color.

Ten years ago I got pregnant with BB. My feet grew. I went from a size 10 to a size 11. My feet never went back.

I needed all new shoes. Not the worst thing in the world, but I was loathe to spend $500 on a new pair of ski boots. Especially when at this point, with a new baby, I was lucky if I were skiing four days a season.

Each year when I squeezed my feet into my too-small boots, Captain would ask,

“Are you going to get a new pair?”

“Maybe, but doesn’t seem worth it.”

Then another pregnancy, so no skiing, then COVID, so more no skiing. Then back to skiing and good grief the boots are still SO SMALL. Maybe it’s time for new boots?

Nope. Last year we decided to save all of our money for the Galápagos and did not go skiing.

Skipping a year made me realize how much I miss skiing! Now here comes the 25/26 season, and we already have 14 ski days on the books. It is time for new boots.

At the end of August I booked two separate appointments: a daytime rental appointment for the kiddos and an evening, boot fitting for myself. I imagined returning to the store childless to try on boots in peace.

We got the kids sorted out. The ski-store guy asked me,

“You’re looking for new boots, too, right?”

“Yes, but I was thinking I’d come back later without them.” I waved my hand in the general direction of my children clomping around the store. The guy said,

“They seem fine. Do you want to try some on?”

“If you say so.”

My children, still in their ski boots, proceeded to stomp laps, then it was quiet, and all I could see was BB’s head popping up in the middle of one of those spinning, clothes racks.

If this is the sales guy’s idea of “they’re fine,” then so be it.

He measured my foot, and looked at the sizing on my old boot. He was shocked,

“They’re so small for you! How could you ski in these?!”

“I don’t know.”

As my toes luxuriated in the spaciousness of the new boots, I looked at my color options: black, gray, and maroon. I asked,

“Are there other color options?”

“I’m afraid not. You’re into unisex sizing now.”

Apparently white-turquoise is not a unisex color.

I settled for comfort and performance in a unisex black.

As I flexed into my new boots, the sales guy noticed my quads and said,

“What do you do to work out?”

“I walk.”

“You’re in this shape from just walking?”

At which point both kids pipe up from under the snowpants rack,

“She walks with a weighted vest!”

I do now.

I walk with a weighted vest, wear unisex ski boots, and explore Sardinia for two weeks without my family.

I’m some new version of the old me.

Except I’m going to check a bag, which is anathema to my being.

After a two-week sabbatical, the least I can do for my family is make sure my suitcase has enough room to bring home all the free, travel tchotchkes I accumulate at the conference.

They can thank me later.