Last Saturday, I made the grievous error of taking the small people to the beach just as the clouds rolled in.
Yes, it is a cruel fate that they got the mom who takes them to the beach on a day where temperatures felt cooler (i.e., high seventies) and clouds and wind promptly appeared as if on cue.
I do what I can with the weather.
The three of them ran to the ocean, put their feet in, and promptly ran right back to me complaining of the water temperatures (i.e., mid-seventies).
They comforted themselves by assuming despondent-looking poses in the sand while I indulged in reading some essays by Harper Lee. Minutes later, I looked up, and they were amassing pieces of old sea oats that they found scattered across the beach.
Therein followed what shall be called the Beach Battles.
My younger son began each fight as tough as one could imagine, but a point would always come where he grew weary of being whacked, and off heâ€™d go, tearing down the beach with my eldest and his minion in hot pursuit.
And then there were the moments I cannot explain. Like this.
Â I can only imagine how we appeared to onlookers. Indeed, there were two ladies who sat off to one side of us who Iâ€™m reasonably sure were watching us the whole time. Why, you ask? Well, their faces were turned slightly but not entirely in our direction, like people do when they want to watch something but not appear that theyâ€™re watching something. And, I never once saw them talking. (I know this not because Iâ€™m creepy, but because I was regularly scanning the battle field, making sure the small people stayed out of everyoneâ€™s way.) It is a rare thing indeed to see two women sitting together silently, neither one possessed by the need to communicate. A captivating
freak side show is the only logical explanation I can offer.Â Â
And as the battle began winding down, the small people practiced their wounded-in-battle poses.