Your front-row seat to my nervous breakdown

See that smile? That, brothers and sisters, is the smile of a man on vacation. A man whose children no longer are babies. A man who didn’t have to spend the first day of his aforementioned vacation driving for 14 sun-baked, traffic-jammed, sanity-shredding hours, and who didn’t have to turn around and do it all over again in reverse at the end of the week.

And that man? That man is me. Hallelujah.

(Dashing, aren’t I?)

Yes, by breaking the trip into two segments, we were at the beach house by 2 o’clock in the afternoon … which, you might notice, is 10 hours earlier than midnight, the time at which one arrives when one makes the maniacally asinine decision to drive 450 miles down the East Coast on a Saturday in the middle of July with a 2-year-old and a 4-year-old in tow.

Our 2 o’clock arrival meant that we had essentially added a full day onto our vacation, because by 3 o’clock, we were on the beach, and when it comes to me and the beach, have you seen that picture of me smiling?

One of the best parts about vacationing at the beach house for the third consecutive year was that we knew what we were doing. We were familiar with the territory, and our two previous visits had taught us many lessons … important lessons … lessons such as, “Be sure to bring plenty of tequila!”

Which isn’t to say that we didn’t have more to learn during this year’s stay; after all, you can never have too much education. For example, despite basing this year’s pre-trip tequila purchase on last year’s final count of four empty bottles, we had to pick up a fifth bottle late in the week. Lesson learned? Next year, we’ll bring five bottles. Or six. Because, really, just as you can never have too much education, so, too, can you never have too much tequila. You know, just in case.

Actually, now that I think about it, it makes sense that we went through more tequila this time around, what with the kids being older. Naturally, they wanted to get in on all that tasty margarita action … and, based on how strong I make each and every round, the kids put away pa-len-ty of tequila themselves.

Obviously, I’m kidding, because — duh! — as anyone knows, it takes far less alcohol to get a 6-year-old and a 4-year-old shitfaced than it does an adult. That’s why I only put half as much booze in their drinks. Because I’m a responsible father, you see.

In addition to a hefty supply of premium tequila, this year’s trip was further enhanced by the fact that, after sharing a room with the kids during our two previous stays, they had their own room this time, and my lovely bride and I had another … and we all know what that means, right? *nudge nudge wink wink* Yep, you guessed it: Wonder Woman and I could climb into bed at the end of the day and … not have to worry that our Mighty Bright book lights would wake the kids.

Of course, we were not convinced that both children would go along with this arrangement, and predicted that we might successfully pull this off for an hour or two on the first night of our stay, at which point we figured one or the other of our little cherubs would decide that he or she wanted to sleep with Mommy and/or Daddy … and by “Mommy and/or Daddy,” I mean “Mommy.” (I try not to take it personally.)

Much to our surprise and delight, however, the kids stuck with the plan throughout all seven nights of our stay. (See? Despite your judgmental reaction, getting them liquored up every night was a good idea … so there.)

But I don’t want to give you the wrong impression; drinking wasn’t the only thing we did. We also spent lots and lots of time on the beach. I mean, we had to do something to pass the time between Happy Hours.

Did I ever mention that Daddy Scratches isn’t my only alter ego? I have another: Beach Sherpa.

Yes, seeing as how I haven’t set foot in a gym since god knows when, I like to find alternative ways of staying in shape … and humping three large umbrellas and four folding chairs down the road and over the dunes each morning seemed like just the thing.

It also seemed like a better option than hitting the gym anyway, since my beach-sherpa workout was followed by lounging on the beach instead of entering a smelly locker room filled with men in various states of undress.

Once at the beach, I would assemble and configure the umbrellas with the kind of precision and uniformity that only an anal-retentive, slightly obsessive-compulsive ex-soldier can.

From there, the day was mostly filled with relaxing under an umbrella, playing baseball with the kids, and floating in the ocean … the latter of which, I’m happy to say, did not at any time involve getting my ass kicked by a feral wave that left sand crabs in my shorts.

 

There was, however, one noteworthy wave incident: my 10-year-old niece, who is the oldest in our group of children, decided to brave the surf with us. Here, you can see one of the aforementioned feral waves taking a shot at us; my niece and her father are clustered together on the right.

My father-in-law, Wonder Woman and I made it through unscathed (that is, so long as you consider the face I’m making up there to fall within the “unscathed” category), but my niece got fairly well bludgeoned, as did my brother-in-law — who, ever the good dad, kept his grip on her throughout the ordeal.

But, hey, better her than me, am I right?! HAHAHAHA! (I’m just kidding; that wasn’t what was going through my head at all. No, I was thinking, “Wow, my brother-in-law sure is a good guy; I would have stood on top of my kids’ heads to avoid that wave.”)

While the bulk of the week comprised days spent enjoying the beach and nights spent pickling our livers, we also kept up with a few things that, after three consecutive years, can safely be called “traditions.”

The first was our annual trip to the boardwalk in Rehoboth Beach, which always includes a visit to Funland, an establishment filled with lots of kiddie rides … some of which are more “kiddie”-ish than others.

For example, the miniature ferris wheel:

Here, we see a 5’11″, 175-pound man crammed into a colorfully festooned thimble with his son, who insisted that his father accompany him. The father was all too happy to comply, because he still felt guilty about last year’s Funland-gone-awry fiasco, during which he and his wife let his wife’s mother take the little boy on a ride called “The Cruisers” — which, the father just discovered, can be found on the Funland website under the heading “Rides for older kids” … and if only the mother and father had known that last year, because, based on that information, they would not have let their then-5-year-old son go on it.

Regrettably, they did not have that information, and had not seen the ride in action, so they did let him go on it … and when the ride attendant hit the big red button, and The Cruisers began to cruise in a most rapid and circular fashion, the boy’s panic-stricken face seared itself into the father’s memory.

As the son closed his eyes and buried his face in his grandmother’s shirt while she wrapped her arms around him, the father approached the attendant and made it clear that the boy needed to be let off the ride. The father was relieved when the ride soon came to a complete stop … at which point the attendant, a.k.a. Giant Fucking Moronic Assclown, flipped the ride into reverse … thus prompting the father to say something like, “Dude, I asked you stop the ride so I could get him off of it, not make the thing start going fucking backwards!” … at which point G.F.M.A. made the immeasurably wise decision to stop the ride and let the father collect his son, whose demeanor for the rest of the evening was similar to that of a beaten dog.

(Not that it left an impression on me or anything.)

Thankfully, things went much better this year … and the kids weren’t the only ones who enjoyed our 2009 boardwalk excursion.

My brother-in-law and I had been waiting a full year to face off on “Guitar Hero,” which we briefly played during last summer’s visit to Rehoboth.

Two things worth noting: 1.) Sure, my brother-in-law is a talented musician who sings, plays guitar and writes his own original songs, but I kicked his ass at fake, video-game guitar playing, so HA!, and 2.) Santa will be bringing the Wii this year … and Daddy will be starting 2010 with heavy bags under his eyes after playing “Guitar Hero” ’round the clock for a week.

And, actually, Santa’s probably going to have to spring for the entire “Guitar Hero World Tour” band kit, because the kids will surely want to do some drumming:

Alright, I admit it: so will I.

Another item on the agenda was our annual trip to the nearby water-sports place, where we rent waverunners. This year, I made it known that I really wasn’t all that interested in riding a waverunner (I believe what I said was, “I just feel like way too much of a redneck tearing across the water making a bunch of noise for no apparent reason as I hurry to get nowhere”), but I was happy to go along and hang out … and ride a paddle boat with my lovely daughter.

Here’s a tip for all you paddle-boat enthusiasts: if you’re being photographed while practicing your craft, don’t chew gum like a cow, or you will look like you are suffering from severe constipation:

Wonder Woman took Zan out for his first waverunner experience (during which he instructed her to not use the throttle, and, for some reason, his general cautiousness about everything is a comfort to me). After they returned, I set aside my wave-running ennui and hopped on the back of Wonder Woman’s machine so we could go for a ride together … and, gosh golly, am I ever glad I did, because, as we were tooling about the bay, we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by of a school of dolphins, I kid you not. They were breaching the surface all around us, probably 15-20 of them, including several pairs of mothers and calves … and, suddenly, the whole waverunning thing seemed far less pointless. (Personally, I think the waverunning place set the whole thing up in order to guarantee some repeat business from us in summers to come.)

Here are some of the amazing photos I shot while in the midst of this unbelievable occurrence:

…

Oh, wait … I didn’t have a camera on me. Balls. You’ll have to settle for another “cute kids” shot instead:

Our final off-site excursion was our annual dinner at Fager’s Island in Ocean City, Maryland. Last year, we sat indoors due to some light rain, which wasn’t so bad (particularly because it yielded some of the most hysterical pictures ever of Jayna dancing her ass off), but the real attraction at Fager’s is its proximity to the water … which is why we were quite psyched to lay claim to the best table in the place during our latest dining experience.

And that pretty much sums up the entire vacation week: it was one picture-perfect moment after another.

Alas, time stops for no man, regardless of how badly that man wants to avoid leaving paradise … so the vacation, it did end. *sigh*

Softening the blow of our departure was the fact that we only had to drive a few hours back to my in-laws’ house, where we spent a couple more days lounging by the pool.

Oh, and it also helped that my father-in-law, just before we left the beach house, signed us up for the same week next summer. Here’s how that made me feel about him:

Speaking of which:

Dear My In-Laws,

Thank you. Thank you. Did I mention “Thank you”? Because, like, really: Thank you.

[And so ends the massive "My Summer Vacation" four-part trilogy(?). If you enjoyed reading about it 1/100th as much as I enjoyed living it, you must feel something akin to sexual ecstasy right now ... in which case, you're welcome! Now, if you'll pardon me, I have to go hibernate until next July ... because, seriously: I can't wait to go back.]