I’ve been trying to remember how long it’s been since I spent a 4th of July anywhere but Florida. I’m thinking it was well before my oldest son was born—and he’s 11.

In the mid 1990′s, my parents started hosting a small family reunion the week of July 4th. They live in Florida, so it soon became our main family vacation. We swim all day, grill out a lot, maybe take in a movie or visit a local attraction. But most of the time, it’s just family time beside the water, with lots of sleeping-in and nice, long naps. In other words, the perfect refreshment I crave in the middle of a long, hot summer. Sure, it’s hot in Florida, too. But because of the ocean breeze, it usually feels cooler than it does here in Georgia’s thick humidity. Just the change of scenery is priceless to me.

But this year, we didn’t get to go.

And I have been an absolute brat about it. I look fine from the outside, but inside I have been throwing one major hissy fit all week long because I don’t want to be here. I want to be at the beach.

It’s not anybody’s fault that this year’s reunion is in Georgia instead. My poor grandmother is battling health problems and my mom is her caregiver. As of last week, I’m officially on modified bedrest due to preterm labor issues, so I’m not allowed to go anywhere. It’s just the way it is.

I’ve tried psyching myself up, planning a few fun activities, saying this is one of those “staycations” everyone’s talking about now that frugal living is hip again. But, come on. Usually I’m writing my 4th of July column sitting on a deck six stories above peachy-white sand and a warm turquoise ocean, while inhaling its good salty smell and hearing the hiss of the surf and the laughing children as they splash out into the water with their boogie boards.

Today, I look out the window and see a lawn and some trees and my chocolate Lab hunched over, finally having found the perfect place to relieve herself. Pretty accurate visual of what happened to my summer vacation.

The scenery just isn’t the same, and the feeling isn’t, either. It’s easy to get all gung-ho patriotic, dressed in red, white and blue, when you know that your day is going to end by tucking your toes into still-warm sand while viewing a gorgeous fireworks display reflected over the sea.

It’s another thing to muster excitement over throwing a few burgers and hot dogs on the grill and feeling it’s too hot and muggy to even bother attempting one of the local fireworks shows. Letting the kids light some sparklers in the front yard just isn’t the same.

But the kids have enjoyed themselves, with sprinklers and sparklers and water balloons. The only complaint they voiced was one big, whiny, “Are we ever going to get to go to Florida again?” and when I replied, “Of course! Someday,” they ran outside again with their water guns, happy as clams over that distant promise.

It’s been hard to face up to how spoiled I am. Seriously, it’s never pleasant when the ugliest parts of your character surface, like raw sewage bubbling up through the ground, and you can no longer deny that it’s there. And it’s humbling when one’s children adapt to the loss of a vacation better than their own mother.

The only remedy I’ve found is to counteract the negative with something positive. Yeah, I’m not at the beach, but I still have my family with me. And our newest family member is getting bigger and stronger every hour, evidenced by the beating my poor womb takes all day long. My grandmother has lived to see her 86th Independence Day, something few of us would’ve bet on happening.

And hey, I still have the honor of living in the best country on the planet. That’s supposed to be what we’re celebrating this weekend. And when it comes right down to it, even I can admit—that’s enough to be happy about.