Gentle waves lap on the smooth sand, composing a soft lullaby on the shore. It’s a few hours after low tide. I’m lounging in my new backpack beach chair reading a book; the sand warm and dry under my toes. Seagulls squawk on nearby rocks, fighting over crumbs of food left behind. I look up from my book to see my daughters deep in imagination land, participating in cooking classes they’ve designed especially for the beach. With rusty pots and pans full of sand carefully imprinted with various shell patterns, I think they are learning how to bake sand cakes—or maybe cookies—I really don’t know for sure.
I am hesitant to interrupt this imaginary world they’ve created, but I really need to pee, and I really don’t want to do it in the ocean. The time on my phone says it’s been an hour or two since lunch, so it’s probably a good time for a bathroom break anyhow. I rise from my beach chair, put my book on the seat, and take a few steps closer to where they are.
“Hey,” I say, and they raise their heads to look at me. “What are ya’ll working on?”
“We’re making sand cakes,” Eden says, before looking back to the creation in her lap.
“I need to go to the bathroom. Can you find your shoes so we can walk that way?” Autumn, her hands covered with dark, wet sand, looks up at me with her big hazel eyes and says, “I don’t really need to go. Can we just stay here?”
“Yeah, can we?” Eden joins in.
I feel my heart speed up. They’ve never asked to stay on the beach alone before, and I’m not really sure how to answer. I dig my toes into the sand, trying to process the gazillion thoughts running through my mind. On the one hand, the beach isn’t crowded today. There are only a handful of other families here; it’s not likely that my kids will be abducted while I walk to the bathroom. Their “cooking school” isn’t situated near the water; they are happily baking sand pastries on the hot rocks and there’s not much risk of drowning in the half-inch tide pool nearby. The bathroom is close—I can go and be back in ten minutes or less.
On the other hand, these are my babies! Can I really leave them alone on the beach?!
I remind myself they aren’t really babies anymore—they are seven and nine. Is it finally time to give them a little more independence? Could it really be true that after nine years of parenting I can finally go to the bathroom all alone?
“Let me think about it for a minute.” I walk back to my chair and grab my phone out of its side pocket. Starting to feel mixed emotions of fear and exhilaration at the prospect of going to the bathroom alone, I text David to get his opinion. “As long as they don’t go in the water,” he texts back; “it’s probably fine.”
I take a few moments to pull our chairs and blankets a few feet back from where we’ve been sitting. The tide is coming in slowly, but there’s no real threat that it will come up this far in the time it takes for me to pee. I’m really just doing this to prolong the decision I have to make. The blanket makes a swooshing sound along the sand, leaving a visible trail as I yank it from one spot to another just five feet away. I pick up my flip-flops and call Autumn over to where I’ve moved our gear. “I’m going to let you stay here while I go to the bathroom. Don’t get in the water. I’ll leave my phone with you. If anything weird happens, text Daddy. You know how to unlock the phone, right?”
Nodding her head, she tells me she knows the password and I chuckle. Of course she knows the password, I think, somehow kids always know how to figure them out. There’s a gleam of pride in her eyes; she’s always been wiser than her young years might suggest. I can tell she knows this is a big step for me, and I imagine she feels a little excitement at this new sense of responsibility I’ve just given her.
I walk over to Eden and tell her the same thing, emphasizing the part about not going in the water. She is my water-loving kid and the chilly New England water temperatures don’t keep her from running in. She’s typically respectful of my boundaries and has never given me a reason to believe she would jump in the water without me. I think I can trust her to stay put while I’m gone.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell them, and I walk away.
My heart feels like it might jump out of my chest as I walk towards the boardwalk. Every few steps, I turn to look back at them playing in the sand. They look so tiny on the beach, I think to myself, and I begin to pick up my pace.
I think about life just a few years ago; when they were two and four. The scene was similar; we were in our backyard instead of at the beach, and it was mud pies they were making instead of sand cakes. I told them I was going inside for a glass of water and you would have thought I told them I was leaving forever. “Wait Mama!” they would say; “I want to go! I don’t want to be out here alone!”
Now here they are, five years later, asking to be left on the beach while I walk to the bathroom out of their sight.
Hastily continuing towards the boardwalk, my feet swish through the crystalline sand; I pass two older women reading books in their chairs and my heart races. Will they notice I left my kids alone on the beach? Will they call the cops and report two children have been abandoned? Will they judge me? Or did they do the same thing once upon a time?
I know these are crazy thoughts. No one on this beach cares about me. They are enjoying their own solitude and peace. My racing heart is invisible to them. I’m not neglecting my children; I’m just going to the bathroom. Right?
I make it there in record time and say a brief prayer of gratitude that there’s no line. This feels silly because the beach is practically empty; the bathroom isn’t getting a lot of use today. I squat over the compost toilet; hear my pee trickle into the dark abyss. I wonder if my kids are okay. Has anyone noticed them alone on the beach? Will there be a lifeguard waiting for me when I get back?
After my bladder is relieved, I pull up my bikini bottoms and leave the stall. I contemplate leaving without washing my hands but we are still living in a pandemic. Besides, Ewww that’s gross. So I make bubbles vigorously and quickly—there’s no counting to twenty or singing the ABCs—shake my hands dry as I walk out the door.
I swing my empty arms, wishing I had my phone so I knew how long I’ve been gone. Or maybe I would document this moment in time with a selfie to show up in my memories later—The first time I went to the bathroom all alone. I briefly consider having a conversation with David about getting the girls their own phone for times such as this—and then I shake that thought away. It’s only been a few minutes. I’m sure they are fine.
I trot over the sand-strewn boardwalk, slowing my pace when I get back on the sand. The last thing I want to do is draw attention to myself. I nonchalantly walk past the women sitting in their chairs; I’m relieved to see they are still heavily engrossed in their books. I scan the horizon for my girls, but can’t quite make out whether or not they are in the same place. Nervous nausea begins to creep into the pit of my stomach, but after a few more steps, I see they are right where I left them. Still making sand cakes. Safe and sound.
I breathe a sigh of relief and plop myself down in my chair. My feet slide through the sand as I stretch out my legs and glance over to where my daughters play. I think we have just crossed over into big kid land, and I’m not really sure how I feel about that.
Is this what it will feel like to pee alone for the rest of my life?
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Novel".
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