The best thing anyone can say to me is “want to go to the beach.” My husband said this yesterday and we did, with Diego, and his best friend. We scooped up his pal from the playground and, after picking up his snacks, towel, and carseat from his mom, drove out to Rockaway Beach.

We’re not beach snobs, in case you couldn’t tell. There is really nothing better than an almost deserted city beach visited on the Wednesday after Labor Day. I’ll admit there was some garbage washed up onto the beach at the high tide water line, like a few plastic bottles, for example. But we’re not talking diapers or syringes. My standards seem low, huh? Well, diving under the waves at 9 months pregnant on a weekday afternoon, playing hooky from life, was heavenly. I even got to lie down and read my book (The Time Traveler’s Wife) while my husband buried the two kids in the sand. No fights, just a lot of snacking and playing with seashells.

Of course today it’s 90 degrees, even hotter than yesterday, and no one invited me to the beach. I sweated it out in prenatal yoga and it was worth it. Nothing like finding your toes again and contorting one’s body into positions that just seem wrong, under supervision, of course.

All this freedom will soon change. The question is: am I ready for it. What do you think?