David Spates "Therefore I Am" Published Sept. 28, 2004

A day at the beach is no "day at the beach"

What does the term "family vacation" mean to you? For me, it conjures memories sitting for hours, sometimes days, in a cramped car with my parents and sister traveling to parts unknown with the prospect of adventure at every mile marker. Mention "family vacation" and I automatically put myself in the role of a kid, a son and a brother.

But not anymore. Now I'm the dad, the husband, the authority, and let me tell you, being the kid, the son and the brother was a lot easier.

My family and I just completed our first four-person beach vacation, and I'm afraid I'll need extensive counseling and physical rehabilitation before I fully recover. Don't get me wrong; we had loads of fun. I enjoy spending time with my kids. It's not a penance. We played on the beach, splashed in the pool, collected seashells, ate lots of shrimp, watched movies at night and had a great week.

That being said, the beach trip with my kids wasn't what I would describe as relaxing. My idea of a great day at the beach features a chair, umbrella, cooler, book and toes in the sand. A day at the beach with a 22-month-old and a 3-year-old is, well, it's no "day at the beach." My daughter, Anna, wants to splash in the surf, play with other kids, build sandcastles, hunt for shells and do all of the things you'd expect a 3-year-old girl would want to do. You don't need to watch her every second, but every minute at least. A 3-year-old is fairly self-regulating but not totally. A strong wave easily could knock her down and start a terrible chain of events that I don't even like to think about. So a close looking-after is required on the beach.

That leaves my son, Phil. Ah, Phil. You may know him as Forrest, Forrest Gump. All this kid wants to do is run. He runs anywhere. He runs all the time. The poor boy is 22 months old and he hasn't learned to walk yet. He runs. Even if he must travel only three feet, he runs the entire 36 inches.

Keeping my boy's love of sprinting in mind, take a moment to envision the beach. Pick a beach, any beach. What do you see? (OK, guys get your eyes off the major babe in the bikini, and ladies get your eyes off the strapping young man with the chiseled features.) Now, what do you see? In addition to the ocean, you see long stretches of endless sandy straight-aways in either direction. For a kid like mine who's favorite pastime is to run, a beach is heavenly.

I cannot in good conscience discourage my kids from engaging in healthy physical activity. American kids are some of the most obese children in the world, and a lack of physical activity is a big reason why. If Phil wants to run, I'm going to let him run as much as possible. There are so many situations in which I'm forced to inhibit his running that when the opportunity arises for him to fully enjoy a full-out sprint with reckless abandon, I'm going to allow him to take full advantage.

And let me tell you, he took full advantage. I haven't traversed that much sand since I was 14 and a buddy and I heard rumors of a nude beach a few miles away. Phil was running in a way that only an unabashed innocent toddler can -- mouth locked in a permanent smile, arms flailing, knees pumping up and down like two little suntanned pistons. Every so often he'd look back to see if his mom or dad were still trailing, and then when he spotted one of us he'd giggle uncontrollably and pick up the pace for a few strides. It's all part of the game, I suppose.

Our kids ran us ragged. As the cliché goes, "We need a vacation to recover from the vacation."

When you're a kid vacationing with your parents, the trip is all about cramming in as much fun as possible in the limited timeframe. I learned on this trip, however, that when you're a parent vacationing with your kids, the trip is more about ensuring their fun while at the same time trying to squeeze in a few moments of R&R for yourself.

And here's a little tip: When the kids are worn out at the end of the day, those few moments of R&R for yourself are all that much sweeter.

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David Spates is a Knoxville resident and Crossville Chronicle contributor whose column is published each Tuesday. He can be reached at davespates@chartertn.net.