Thanks for the memories

We recently returned from our annual vacation to the Jersey Shore. And if you didn't hear about it on the news, that's because it went well! Unlike last year's disastrous flight home. The G-man was a top-notch traveler, far exceeding our expectations. As for an overall vacation companion, he was great at that, too. Took everything in stride and seemed to enjoy all of the experiences.

Oh, what experiences he had! It was pure toddler heaven. He got to ride in a jet plane; take a trip on a steam excursion train; dine out in new places; watch fireworks; play in the sand and ocean everyday; visit playgrounds; watch boats, planes, seagulls and lifeguard vehicles from the beach; stroll the boardwalk; ride every carnival-type ride he was tall enough to get on; eat his weight in ice cream; stay up late and so much more.

Each evening we went over his day and he talked about how much fun he had. It was wonderful.

And for the most part, he doesn't remember a thing.

When you ask him what he did on vacation, he'll tell you that he went on a jet plane. Or that he had stickers on the jet plane. Or that he "did great" on the jet plane (true). Mostly, because going home on the plane was the last thing we did. Occasionally, if we've just talked about it, he'll mention the train ride. After some prodding he might tell you about a moment at the amusement park, getting sand in his eyes or the snack he had at Uncle David's. Sadly, in just a few weeks, even these small snippets will probably be gone from his conscious memory.

To try to save some of this for posterity, I took a ton of photos and some short videos. Hopefully, when we show these to him, he'll remember something or at least recognize that he is there, doing...something, somewhere. But in reality, I don't have much hope. Will he ever really know all the stuff we did with him and for him? How we ate peanut butter non-stop to save up so he could do anything he wanted for an entire week? How we longed to take a nap but powered through our days to entertain him?

It made me think of all the times I went down the shore as a kid and what I remember. I bet my parents did a lot for us and made a lot of sacrifices to give our family a great week of fun, sun, sand and surf every summer. I'm sorry to say though, I have no clue what they were. Here is a brief synopsis of my shore memories:

Swimming in the pool at the motel in Wildwood. That's right, I'm sure we went to the beach every day, but I remember going down the slide into the outdoor pool wearing my floatie. I don't, however, remember if anyone caught me.

Watching TV with my brother while eating gumballs in the hotel room at Wildwood. May have been the same hotel. May have been the same year. I'm guessing they were even a treat from my parents and that we got them on a fun-filled excursion to the boardwalk. No clue.

Getting sand in my swimsuit.

Knowing when my little brother had been in the surf for too long because his lips turned blue.

Wearing my shoes (jellies!) into the ocean because I didn't want to step on seashells.

The year I bought a swimsuit whose lack of coverage shocked my father.

Kissing a boy from the beach (same summer as the swimsuit, go figure).

Playing board games with my older brother.

I'm going to venture to say that my parents provided me with hours of entertainment, perhaps even side trips, fun dinners, family time on the beach, and what I remember is a sad testament to their own hard work.

I think that for the next few years, the G-man will have only fleeting memories of anything we do with him or for him. I will, of course, continue to stalk his every move with the camera like a deranged paparazzi, if only to give him plenty of material to look back at when he's older and say, "Oh, I did that? Hope it was fun."

Well G-man, it was fun. And I loved being there with you. The fact that just today when I asked you about vacation and you told me you had strawberry milk on the train and that it was pink gives me hope that your brain is storing all this up and will do something awesome with it someday. Maybe you won't recall every clickety-clack of the wheels, but when a whistle blows in the distance, you'll have an inexplicable urge to become a strawberry farmer.