Not Above a Little Revenge

This morning, though the sky was overcast and the air a bit chilly, Elan begged us to take him to the beach. We tried reasoning with him, explaining why it wasn't a good day to be where it's ten degrees colder, but he wouldn't hear of it:
"You never take me to the beach, and I LOVE the cold." Neither of those was exactly true, but it had been awhile, so Y shrugged and said, "Sounds ok to me. We'll bring sweatshirts."

Elan turned out to be right, because we didn't even need our sweatshirts once we hit Malibu. It was gorgeous and warm and breezy and we wiled away the better part of the day building sandcastles and trying to escape the tide. And thanks to Chabad, Malibu is that much more lovable, because there is a kosher restaurant right on the coastline. I got to munch on a fantastic Mexican salad complete with rice, beans, guacamole, corn salsa, and grilled chicken. The only thing I love more than being at the beach is having something good to eat there.

Anyway. Y and I were standing in the shore, jumping waves with the kids, and watching people attempt to surf and kayak. I'm always talking about getting away to the beach alone with Y for a weekend, and though it's yet to actually happen in the five years we've been married, I still like to plan. So I said, "Doesn't kayaking look like fun? Let's totally do that on our vacation."

Y's response was: "Really? Kayaking appeals to you?"
"Absolutely. But if you're not into that, we could try water-skiing..."
"G-d, no. That sounds awful. You know I hate skiiing."
"Oh."

Later, I gave it another whirl. "So what about horseback riding? Would you want to do that?"
Y, with feeling this time: "Hell, no. It's gotta be a killer on the balls!"

Point taken.

"So is there anything you'd want to do, if we went away to the beach for a weekend, besides sitting still?"
"I could go for jetskiing. Yeah, I might want to jetski."

Motorcycles on water. So freakin' male. So freakin' NOT my dream day.

It was one of those moments when I pondered how on earth Y and I get on so well, considering how little we sometimes have in common. Our actual hobbies and extra-curricular interests couldn't be more different, and every now and then I am unhappily reminded of just that. I felt kind of down.

After awhile, we headed home. At this point, the boys were both over-stimulated and over-tired, and were on the emotional descend. Elan was upset about the sand stuck to his feet and the fact that he didn't have any more dry shirts to wear. Ariel didn't want to be told "no" about his rock-climbing efforts.

But once we started the windy, scenic drive through Malibu Canyon, the evening sun giving the mountains all around us a warm glow and Enya soothing our saltwater-stung senses, a strange quiet fell upon us. Sunburned and silent, we cruised with the car, the boys' eyes half-closed. Bliss.

Then, it was over. Elan's voice punctured the calm: "Mommy? MOMMY! DID YOU PAUSE POWER RANGERS MYSTIC FORCE WHEN WE LEFT?????" He's still trying to wrap his head around the whole concept of DVR (PS - did you know that Power Rangers only airs at 10:30 PM? Who the hell is watching the Power Rangers late at night? Suddenly my parenting doesn't feel quite as delinquent).

From then on, the drive home was mayhem. Once on the highway, Elan found a blow-up toy with a rattle/bell thing inside and began shaking it nonstop, the ringing blocking out any other - more preferable - noises entirely. Next, Ariel pitched in by screaming- and I mean screaming - a series of "MOM-MYDADDYMOMMYDADDY"s that were clearly meant to indicate that although he had nothing really important to say, he was kind of tired and dehydrated and cranky and he hated his seatbelt and he wanted some attention, dammit!

Y and I, heads pounding, did our best to placate, cajole, and ultimately threaten them into shutting the racket up, but to no avail. We were going about 65 MPH, seemingly to Hell.

Then, at the exact same time, saying nothing to one another, Y and I reached for the window controls and lowered all four windows, and the sunroof, all the way. Blasts of air came soaring into the car and straight into the backseat. Elan and Ariel were in a windtunnel. Ariel's long, crazy hair was flying into his eyes, uncontrollably, and Elan's hand were flailing about trying to protect his own. They both screamed bloody murder for us to make it stop. We looked at each other, grinning. Then we started laughing.

Like mad, evil villains, we kept it like that for maybe thirty seconds. But when we sealed the car back up, the kids were utterly silent, beaten at their own game. Together, and by means, admittedly, just short of actual abuse, we'd won the war.

And I felt so much better, because I remembered why Y and were together, what we most definitely had in common.

All we really need is the same, occasionally-viscous sense of humor, and a couple of rowdy little kids to torture.

A day well spent.