I need a T-shirt that says, “I Survived the Boys at the Beach!” Honestly! I didn’t sunbathe. Didn’t find sand dollars. I was that mother lugging the towels and sunscreen and water bottles and camera, yelling, “Wait for me! Slow down! Get off those rocks!”

I have a roll of pictures of tiny figures far off in the distance, scaling cliffs like mountain goats, me screaming, “Get down! You’re gonna die! Get back from that ledge!”

Even writing about this after our trip makes me anxious.

And then there was the duck. The poor little duck. Minding her own business floating in the surf. The boys ran her down. Grabbed her by the neck and packed her back to me like I would be so proud of my duck catchers. All the while me screaming, “Leave the duck alone! Leave her alone!” With the pounding surf carrying my cries away on the wind.

Fortunately, we were alone on the beach. No people. No dogs. Perhaps people don’t like this beach because they can’t free their dogs here. Maybe this is why the slow ducks swim here. I don’t know, but after the duck fiasco, the duck and I sat there in the sand a little shell-shocked. The boys dropped the duck and raced off down the beach with me demanding for Scott to, “Do something with your sons!”

“We’re raising boys, not girls. Leave them alone. Let them be boys.”

How can I leave our boys alone when I’m just trying to keep them alive? And keep the wildlife alive?

So I sat there with the duck for awhile. Praying and watching the duck. Her ruffled feathers. Her wings tucked up tight. Gathering the little dignity she had left after being manhandled by the boys.

If a duck can do it, I can do it. So I gathered my dignity as well. Calming down and calling on God to keep our boys safe and keep me from freaking out as their mother.

Our girls never acted this way at the beach. Our sweet daughters gathered shells and gently picked up starfish and quietly walked the beach with me like sane people.

Sane people…

The boys are insane! Using their skim boards to surf down giant sand dunes. To slam into each other in the surf. The only time they stopped was when they got hurt. Five minutes of resting before going back out to do the exact same thing that injured them before.

Is it just me, or do boys grow their brains later in life? Say around forty when they begin to think about what they’re actually doing? When they finally realize it might not be a good idea? That they could lose an arm or a leg or their life doing that?

 

 

I am amazed by all this man moxie. No wonder eighteen-year-old boys make good soldiers. They say men won the West, but women tamed it.

This is so true.

When the boys get hurt, they come to me. “Am I okay, Mom?” “Yes, you’re okay, honey.” A kiss and a hug and they’re off to do it all again.

What’s a little blood, sweat, and tears?

Their blood.

My sweat and tears.

My palms actually sweated this past weekend. At Glass Beach on the cliffs. The boys leaping down sheer walls of earth to get to the glass. I had to walk away. My heart hammering. My palms sweating. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced sweating palms before.

“Is this really the way down to Glass Beach?” I asked a group of women walking up a trail to the cliffs where I stood with my hands dripping perspiration. “Of course not,” they said. “The way to the glass is down over there.” “My boys went down that way,” I said, pointing to a cliff. The women’s eyes widened. “My husband took our three-year-old down there, too.” “You need to walk down over there.” One of the women pointed to a different location. “It’s much safer that way.”

I couldn’t walk any further. My legs trembled too badly after watching the boys disappear over the ledges.

I waited for Scott and the boys to return, climbing up the cliffs like mountaineers. That was enough for me. I was the one who wanted to go to Glass Beach in the first place. Now I just wanted to go home.

So much for a restful vacation. This was our first family ocean adventure without the girls and I felt like Jane, the only woman in the jungle. My husband Tarzan with his five gorilla sons. I can’t say I have any real spiritual insight to share with you right now. Except that I’m tackling my fear this week with the weapon of prayer.

I was such a brave little girl. I don’t know what happened when I became a mom.

On the cliffs I was sick with fear for the safety of my children. Nothing in my control, yet everything in God’s control.

When did fear become bigger than my God?

So I’m pondering and praying and repenting as I return to selling apricots, pluots, nectarines and peaches at the Farmer’s Markets this week. We’re in harvest season with everyone working to get the fruit sold.

Me also working to not sell out to fear.