Spring break isn't what it used to be. In high school and college I remember casually tossing clothes and a two-piece bathing suit into an overnight bag for a week long trip to the Gulf coast with my favorite people in the world, my girlfriends.

Now spring break includes enough planning and packing to require a budget, flow charts and a U-Haul trailer.

Although my family vacation is a bit different than "Gulf Shores or Bust 1995" it's still full of drama and excitement. The drive to the beach still includes a car packed as full of people as a clown car at the circus, but now my backseat is door to door car seats. The tunes are still blaring over the radio, except instead of blasting Ace of Base we are now listening to Elmo, Big Bird and Ernie.

My skimpy two-piece bathing suit has been replaced with a tankini and a sarong, my Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil SPF 0 has been upgraded to Coppertone SPF 80, followed up at night with a very expensive anti-wrinkle cream.

The sounds of teenagers giggling and gossiping in the car have morphed into shrieks of, "MOMMA! Tell her to quit looking at me! Quit touching me! That's mine!" and the sounds of my husband arguing with the GPS.

My most urgent concerns, were remembering to flip over and reapply tanning oil at regular intervals and making sure to suck my stomach in when cute boys walked past. I remember lying lazily in the sun, reading trashy tabloid magazines until my eyes grew heavy and I could simply close them and sleep.

Now I start applying sunscreen to every member of my family a full hour before we plan to see the sun. My most urgent bathing suit concern is avoiding a wardrobe malfunction while my children are climbing all over me in the swimming pool like I'm an attraction at the water park.

Time on the beach no longer includes reading material any more, but channeling Baywatch: The Postpartum Years. I can barely blink, much less sleep on the beach, as I am constantly watching to make sure one of my children doesn't wash away in the surf. I try to remember to "suck it in," as I run down the beach chasing a rogue toddler, but since I can't control the jiggle in my butt or thighs, it's not too high of a priority.

These days I swim in the indoor swimming pool praying to God in Heaven above that none of my children have a potty accident.

There is no walk of shame as degrading as having to tell the property manager that one of your children has pooped in the swimming pool and it now needs to be shut down for everyone in the entire community.

It's one thing when someone else's child has an accident, I can explain that to my children. But it's a whole different matter to have to tell a pool full of vacationing families that one of your angels didn't make it to the restroom in time.

It still feels good to get in the bed totally exhausted from spending the day in the surf and sun. And although my "girlfriends" are a lot shorter and younger than they used to be, they are still my favorite people in the world and it's too much fun to be at the beach making memories with them.

(Robin O'Bryant is a mother of three. Read her blog at www.robinschicks.com or e-mail, zebandrobin@hotmail.com.)