Recently I came across a suitcase filled with old Polaroids. Countless shots detailing life in our early twenties. Bar stomps, apartment dwellings, bad haircuts, fashion mishaps and more. Of all the beloved memories snatched during this blissfully carefree period, the ones of us lounging beachside are among my favorite. One tends to forget (or ignore) the fact that before babies, an afternoon spent sunbathing on the sand, drinking beer -when beer was still allowed - flipping through magazines while listening to music was not a luxury, it was "routine." A reality that feels worlds away from life now. These days we still manage random beach trips, but they are utterly frantic and totally exhausting. About five times louder and ten times harder than they use to be. In fact the thought of falling asleep anywhere near water only startles my poor heart to skip a beat. For the life of me I can't remember the last time I actually laid down on the sand. Or any place that was not my own bed, late at night, for that matter. Makes me think a little vacation, sans kids, might be in order. Something easy, by the ocean. To remember what a nap under the sun feels like. Just long enough to make me miss wiping sand out of tiny toes and chasing over-adventurous boys down the beach to pile back into a filthy RV headed for home.