In my defense, the more unpredictable than usual weather isn't the only thing throwing me off my seasonal game of late. No, it's the total upset of my largely predictable (and, ok, maybe even boring) spring schedule. I'm talking about Seaside friends. The lovely, wholly restorative little beach town that my family has decamped to for a week each April for the past nine years (see: 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013... sigh).
Alas, for various reasons that I won't bore you with here, in what would have been our 10th consecutive year making the trek toward the sand and sea, the trip wasn't in the cards for us this year. And it hasn't exactly been easy coming to terms with the absence of this tradition, this mental and physical recharge, this 24 hours round-trip in a car alternatively delving into life's great mysteries with Bryan and the girls and a massive stack-o-reading materials, this essential gateway-to-summer ritual. (Hell who am I kidding, I've been kicking and screaming about the whole situation for the better part of the past month.)
And while I realize it's petty (at best) to grouse over a missed beach vacation in a year that my family got to enjoy an epic trip to France and numerous other blessings, it's got me surly and off my game, especially this week -- the exact week that we would be at the beach. So I'm trying to get my mojo back by faking a retreat. We scrubbed and cleaned and spruced our patio and backyard last weekend until we could scrub and clean and spruce no more. We planted blackberries and blueberries, picked the first spring strawberries, made big salads topped with toasted sesame seeds and as every type of radish procurable at the Whole Foods. I started a big stack of magazines and am planning to carve out a few hours this weekend to sit with my girlies, toes in the pool, strawberries at the ready, and read.
We may not have sand, but it's something.