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I took the kids to the beach today.

It was a school night, they hadn't started their homework yet and I had a mound of laundry the size of Godzilla dropping in the basement, but when I picked them up from school, I looked up at the cloudless sky, saw the temperature was an unseasonable 83 degrees, and said, "What the heck."

I asked myself how many more beach days we have left this year.

I'm not in Florida or Arizona or Southern California, where beach days grow on trees and ice cream is a year-round treat.

They've already turned off the water fountains in most of the local parks, and pretty soon the pool will be closed even to the folks dodging falling leaves as they swim laps in the morning.

It's a "seize the day" kind of moment in the Midwest, even if seizing the day results in having to vacuum a metric ton of sand out of the car, pushing overtired and slightly sunburned kids into bed almost the instant they've finished their math worksheets, and adding more beach towels to that Godzilla pile calling my name.

So I did it. I packed the car full of children and snacks and towels and inner tubes and headed to the beach, a short enough drive away to embarrass me that I'd ever considered skipping it.

The kids immediately ran to the water, the post-school fatigue falling from them with every step they took.

"This is so fun!" my youngest screamed as he drifted over a wave, lying on his back.

How had I thought it wouldn't be worth the hassle?

As I was lying on the sand, looking out at a lake that shocks me with its size every time I see it, I thought about those late-summer -- OK, early fall -- days that demand our attention. These are the moments in life that refuse postponement, that put into perspective all our false priorities.

These aren't the planned vacations, the intentional time off where each second has been organized and prepared. These are the impromptu pleasures, the unannounced joys. They'll flit right past us if we don't reach out our hands to grab them.

It was hard to remember why I'd wanted to stay home, what I had planned to do instead of this, this perfect minute, hour, day.

What is laundry when compared to the waves? What's homework when it's facing the sound of screams of childish delight?

"I can't believe we get another beach day in September," I thought.

The boys started to get a little chilly in the autumn water, and as the sun set, the pressing concerns of real life intruded once more. What would I make for dinner? How would I get them into the house without tracking sand everywhere?

I promised myself to bring the kids back tomorrow if the weather is still as nice, but I know there will be a fresh set of objections raised by then. I hope I'll have my answers ready. I hope I'll remember the dwindling time on all our hourglasses.

Because the truth is, none of us is guaranteed another beach day, no matter what the date is.

Occasionally, we have to be a party pooper, even if it's our own party. We can't always drink the wine. We can't always eat the dessert. And we can't always take to the beach.

Sometimes summer is well and truly over. Sometimes our other demands truly are too pressing. But sometimes -- oh, sometimes -- we can. And when those unscripted delights are held out on a platter, it's incumbent upon us to consider them.

For all the warm, sunny squares on the calendar this month, I hope that I do.

I mean, how many beach days do I have left?

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

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