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Who doesn’t love summer?

It is our reward for three seasons of going full-speed, twenty-four seven, in a world that is too complex and way too fast.

We all need a break, especially mothers.

All year round, we have to get everybody ready in the morning, while we pack lunches and find somebody’s missing sneaker.

But it’s summertime, and we get a breather and if we’re lucky, an actual vacation.

During which we get everybody ready in the morning, while we pack lunches and find  somebody’s missing sneaker.

But at least we do it in a nicer place.

To me, the best part of summer is that the entire world relaxes just a bit, letting down mentally, easing off the gas emotionally.

That’s what we all truly need, a July of the mind.

A time to wear mental flip-flops.

Fewer clothes.

More laughter.

An excess of wasted time.

Life, unplugged.

To me, the best part of summer is the beach.

It’s all about the beach.

Every time I drive into a shore town, I can feel my mood lift and my spirit lighten.

I drive into town, past the salt water taffy and fudge stores, then the swirly custard stands, fried clam joints, and the drugstores that sell suntan lotion, where the only bottles left will have an SPF of 2 or 18326.

And nothing in between.

I know I’m at the beach when I pass my favorite store, which is one that sells inflatable toys for kids, so outside will be oversized inflatable alligators, puffy rings like multicolored Lifesavers, funky boogie boards, and foam noodles growing out of a barrel like so many Gerber daisies.

Minus the Gerber daisy part.

The salt air, the warm sun, the happy smiles; all of it is the stuff of summer.

And the great thing is, I feel that way whether I’m on vacation or not.

In fact, Francesca and I go on book tour every summer to promote these books, and even that feels like a vacation, just because it’s summer time.

We drive around together, switching off on the driving and making our way through Rehoboth Beach, Bethany Beach, and Hamptons, Mystic, Connecticut and Westerly, Rhode Island. We even took three ferries during our last tour, and this year we’re expanding to Virginia Beach and Cape Cod beaches.

We might even take a paddleboat.

Why not?

It’s summertime!

And that’s the point of this little book, come to think of it. It’s the seventh in this series, which Francesca and I have written about our lives alone and together, as mother and daughter. We’re really ordinary and normal, and the more you read about us, the more you’ll see your own life and your own families reflected herein.

Except that you probably behave better.

Because although our relationship is wonderful and we are truly each other’s best friends, that doesn’t mean we don’t fight.

I’m here to say that we have fought our way through beaches along the East Coast and, as I mentioned above, we’ll soon be expanding our fighting to Virginia and Massachusetts.

Yay!

Which brings me to my point.

Even in summertime, there will be problems.

You’ll get in fights with your kids.

Of you’ll get in fights with your mother or father,

Everybody knows that a family vacation is hardest on the family.

Also, things will go wrong, like the weather won’t cooperate.

And you’ll find yourself with five days of vacation and four days of clouds, which means you’ll stare at your phone, laptop, or television, mentally calculating how much it’s costing you to be depressed in a new location.

Plus, you’ll find yourself spending way too much time in the local grocery store, which will gouge you on price.

Also the drugstore, which will gouge you on price.

And any restaurant, which will gouge you on price.

Finally, you will get sand in all the wrong places.

You’ll get sand in your sneakers.

You won’t be able to shake all of it out.

You’ll get sand stuck in the elastic in your bathing suit.

You won’t be able to rinse all of it out.

You’ll even get sand in your hair, blown by the wind off the sea onto your very scalp.

You won’t be able to wash it out.

The sand will come back to the rental house with you, where it will fall on the floor, and when you drive home, it will be in the well underneath the gas pedal. You will track it inside your own house, and you will feel a grittiness under your toes in your very bedroom, maybe even your sheets.

Don’t let the sand bother you.

And above all, don’t nag each other about it or whine about it, because that misses the point.

Flip it.

Think of the sand as fairy dust.

Because it is.

It’s a magical sprinkling of a summertime mood.

If you’re lucky, the sand will always be with you, wherever you go. A gritty little reminder under your feet.

And in your undies.

Summer is truly a state of mind.

If you keep that with you at all times – by that I mean, the mentally easing of worry, the emotionally letting go, and more smiles in general – you will have a happier and healthier year.

Until summer rolls around again, and you get to go back to the beach.

To bring home more sand.

Enjoy.

--“I’ve Got Sand in All the Wrong Places” from I'VE GOT SAND IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES by Lisa Scottoline and Francesca Serritella

The last time my mom came to visit, I lost her.

It was like that movie Baby’s Day Out, except with my parent. I turned my back for one second, and the little rascal got away from me.

I imagined her crawling along an I-beam at some high rise construction site.

But she’s afraid of heights, so more likely she’d be in Times Square, telling the Naked Cowboy he isn’t dressed warmly enough.

It started with tickets to see the new Larry David play. My mom checked that she had the tickets for the third or fourth time.

It says, “late arrivals will not be seated,” she read, for my benefit. My mom is early to everything. We left with an hour to spare.

And yet, we found ourselves in a cab crawling up Sixth Avenue for a half-hour with fifteen blocks to go. I checked our route on my smartphone; the driving estimate to get to the theater was fifteen minutes, the walking was only ten.

“I think we should get out,” I said.

“Really?” My mom looked aghast.

“Yeah, we’re close, but this traffic is going to take forever.”

But I’d inadvertently hit the panic button in my mom’s ever-punctual brain. She swiped, tapped, and banged her credit card on the automated reader before throwing it at me in anguish (“Mom, it’s a touchscreen now, we’ve been over this…”) and she couldn’t wait for the cabbie to pull over before she shot out of the taxi.

I scurried after her. “Wait, we have time, we don’t have to run.”

But she was already jogging down the crowded sidewalk, dodging men with briefcases and women wearing pantyhose with sneakers.

I awkwardly half-ran after her, not eager to claim the crazy woman sprinting in front of me as m own, but not wanting to lose sight of her bobbing blond head either.

My mom turned back only occasionally to furiously mouth the words, “COME ON!” and “WHY AREN’T YOU RUNNING?”

This made me laugh, which only made her angrier.

I was only a few yards behind her until a major intersection, when she darted out against the light. I winced as she put her hands up to the hoods of honking cars like an action movie star.

Thankfully, even Manhattan drivers won’t mess with my mother.

So she was a good ten yards ahead of me when she got to one corner and pointed west, mouthing, “This way?”

The theater was on 48^th between Sixth and Seventh Avenues. We were on sixth, so we were less than a block away—with plenty of time, I might add.

I nodded.

She bolted left. I figured I’d catch up to her in a minute.

Until I reached the corner and looked up.

The sign read 49^th Street.

I was so busy chasing her, I didn’t realize we’d overshot it by a block. But by now, the blond head had vanished.

I called my mom’s cell phone—no answer.

I called again. Surely, she would pick up, once she didn’t immediately see the theater where it should be.

It went to voicemail.

I called a third time. SURELY, she would at least LOOK at her phone, once she realized her daughter was no longer behind her.

Nope.

I ran all the way down 49^th St looking her. I stopped at the corner of Broadway, at a complete loss as to which way she’d gone.

Ten minutes to curtain. I headed to the theater, praying she’d be there waiting.

She wasn’t.

I called her again, and this time she answered. Like any parent who’s been through a scare, my relief curdled instantly to anger. “Where are you?!” I screamed.

“I don’t know!” she yelled.

“How do you not know? It’s a grid!”

We both calmed down, and I coached her to find me. When she arrived, her once blown out hair was frizzed with sweat. She looked so cute, I couldn’t be mad.

We rushed inside. The usher pointed us to our seats, and a concession worker walked by. My mom asked me to buy her a water.

“Sorry, we’re out. I only have wine,” he said.

“Fine.”

He handed it to me in a plastic sippy cup.

I gave Mommy her juice just as the house lights dimmed, and I collapsed into my seat.

Next time, I’m bringing a nanny.

-“Mommy’s Day Out” from I'VE GOT SAND IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES by Francesca Serritella

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