Family Matters: A Day at the Lake Beach

Though I am one of many Queens natives who shuddered and broke out into hives when called a "Long Islander," when the topic turned to the beach, I suddenly became the proudest Long Islander who ever lived.

"Of course I used to go to the beach all the time," I would retort to anyone who asked. "I lived on The Island."

Jones Beach (always Field 4), Long Beach, even Fire Island are where I spent many of my teenage summer hours, with nothing but towels and a volleyball, wearing super-skimpy bathing suits, rushing to relax (and be seen) at the area's most popular beach spots.

Upon hearing that this past Saturday was going to be hot, my husband announced, "Hey, we can go to the beach this weekend."

"The beach! Yay!!! The beach!!!" exclaimed both of my children.

Of course, what my husband meant by "beach" was Martin Park, or Great Pond, our beautiful town lake.

Now that we live in Ridgefield and have children, the meaning of "beach" has altered slightly.

"Beach" now indicates a trunk load of "stuff" that we have to bring, including two very impatient and excited children, as we do our best to avoid swimmer's itch, water snakes, and that mushy stuff that you step on in the water. Oh, and the cute skimpy bikini has now been replaced by a Land's End tankini with the special wide waistband bottom.

Don't get me wrong; I feel incredibly lucky to live 1.5 miles from this natural gem, which has been my second home with the kids every summer. It's just that I can't wrap my head around calling it a beach.

Always up for a semantic discussion, I muttered under my breath, "You mean the lake, not the beach."

"What's that?" my husband asked.

"It's not really a beach. It's a lake with sand," I told him.

"Whatever," he said, and turned to the other two people in the room who would not argue with him. "If it's nice out, guys, we can go swimming at the beach!" And yes, he slightly elongated the word beach.

This last exclamation inspired our kids to break out into a beach-related tune, where the title, refrain, and chorus all similarly repeated, "We're going to the beach, the beach, the beach! We're going to the beach, the beach, the beach!" about 10,000 times.

All morning, the excitement was building. "Is it time yet? Can we go now? When are we leaving? Who is going to be there?" The barrage began at around 7 a.m. and continued all the way through lunch.

Finally, we packed up the car with about as much stuff as we took on a week's vacation and drove short distance over to Martin Park.

"Look!" my son screeched as we walked up the hill to the entrance. "That's the hose you clean your feet with!"

As the kids raced onto the sand for the first time in nine months, my husband and I lagged behind, dragging our beach cart and carrying the rest of the stuff that didn't fit.

Before we even dropped our blanket, the kids were all over my husband.

"Can you take us to the dock, Daddy? Can we go now?"

As the kids scrambled to the water with my husband following, I unpacked the many things one needs to bring to go swimming for a few hours.

"How's the water?" I said to a friend nearby.

"Freezing," she replied.

About three minutes later, my husband returned with our shivering, teeth-chattering children.

"Where's my towel?" my son asked.

"How was the water?" I said.

"Freezing!" my kids replied.

"Not so bad," my husband said, trying to stop his bottom lip from chattering.

With water play done, my kids searched around for kids to play with, which took all of about three seconds.

With both kids entertained, my husband and I sat in our chairs and chatted with some friends, waving at the various acquaintances and friends who passed us by throughout the day.

Every once in a while, one of our kids would remember us, but mostly to request water or food. I even tried to be fun mom and play football with my son, but some other boy took over for me after only a few tosses. Without any hesitation, I sat right back down in my chair.

One more swim to the dock with my husband and one game of monkey in the middle in the water with me, and our parenting job was complete for the day. I wished I had my book or a magazine with me, but who knew it was going to be so easy?

At some point, I found myself lying face down on our blanket, and I possibly dozed off for a few minutes, amidst the background noise of happy children and splashing water.

We finally were able to drag our children away after over five hours of "beach" fun.

"Can we go back tomorrow?" asked my daughter.

"Can we get ice cream?" was the obvious next question from my son.

Of course I know that it doesn't matter if it's a Bermuda pink sand beach, or a lake, pond or swimmin' hole, as long as the kids are happy. But as wonderful as the day was, I still want to expose the kids to the "real" beach before I finally accept our current status as lake swimmers, not ocean combers.

We could always trek down to Long Island for the day to go to a beach more up to my standards, but I think the 1.5-mile distance will always trump the 1.5-hour trip. And I don't even have to pretend I'm from somewhere else to feel I belong.