The good old rollicky Pacific is the antidote to house hunting mania or any stresses in life. By 8a.m. we were on the road, the minivan loaded in T’s wagon loaded in towels, diaper bag, sippy cup, baby food and a breakfast consisting of freshly popped popcorn, a tuna melt from last night’s dinner, smoked salmon and cream cheese finger sandwiches, flattish donuts that come in plastic bags and never need refrigerating, power bars and vegan chocolate chip cookies.
T hasn’t seen the ocean for a couple of months. We were interested in his reaction now that he walks so sturdily and owns the world. He adores water—pavement puddles, bathwater, dishwater—but the last time I took him to the beach all he wanted to do was eat sand. We were hoping that now, at 15 months, he’d be more interested in using his bucket and shovel than putting the beach in his mouth.
I’ll be quiet now.
The bucket was a hit! Sand went into its blue interior vs. T’s mouth. As for the water? I had to curb the euphoria in the interest of keeping him alive and hypothermia-free, especially when he wanted to lie on his tummy and reverse bodysurf the waves.
I so appreciate a successful day at the beach.
Well, PB, I’m not so sure about that hat of yours…
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