Beach Day

Dylan,

Yesterday was one of those rare days when I'm home with you and we have nothing on the agenda. I was toying with going to the beach though the morning arrived with a thick layer of fog and predicted temps at the coast to be in the low 60s. It didn't sound like much of a beach day to me, but I figured the weather didn't much matter to you as long as I brought enough dry clothes to keep you sufficiently warm.

I thought briefly about going to the children's museum instead, but you've been so overly sensitive to things lately, both being overly aggressive with other kids yet crying almost at the drop of a hat, that I decided I didn't want to spend they day policing you and having to deal with all the crying.

The beach it was.

We got a late start, even though I got to and back from the gym early, because it took me a long time to get everything together, then you decided you didn't want to stop playing with your trains. I finally convinced you to get in the car, and we were off. We headed for your new favorite beach and arrived around lunch time. We navigated the steep rocky path down from the street, across the railroad tracks, and again steeply down to the parking area with your stroller in tow. I was a little apprehensive about you staying close and me managing you and the stroller. While it was too steep to have you in the stroller, I had decided to bring it to help transport our stuff and your toys. Aside from a brief stop at the tracks to investigate, the process was a piece of cake. You obligingly held my hand (very rare) and even sat patiently on the log near the steepest section while I carried down the stroller and then came back up to get you. I think you sensed the potential danger that existed, and showed surprising maturity in your actions.

I opted to have lunch with you still in your stroller at the top of the concrete steps that lead to the sand. Can't beat that view. I'm not a fan of sand in my food, and I figured it would be much less messy, and you much easier to contain with this approach. Again you were surprisingly willing to oblige despite the fact that the beach sprawled out right in front of you just waiting...

This beach is your favorite because it has a "little river" that runs off the hillside, collects into a pool in the sand, then continues to the ocean. It is this river that you're almost solely interested in, as the unpredictability of the ocean's swells and the noise of the crashing waves generally causes you to keep your distance form what most view as the main attraction. While I'd love to see you frolicking in the ebb and flow of foamy sea water, and can even imagine the giggles and laughter that might accompany this, there is also a large part of me that is very glad you are so wary of this beautiful beast and prefer to admire it from afar.

Apparently the rainy season is far enough behind us now that there is no longer a little river to play in, but rather a fairly stagnant pool of water with a trickling inlet, but no above ground outlet. I explained this to you and you seemed to take it in stride. We trudged across the sand to the far bank area and set up shop next to a large driftwood log. You immediately began loading sand onto your tractor and dump truck. As you seemed quite content to focus on this, I curled up on a towel with my book.

Eventually you asked if you could play in the pool. My instincts said "yuk, no" but I decided I could wash you off at the showers before our ride home. I rolled up your pants, donned your crocs, and let you go. You proceeded to wander a moderate distance away from our camp, then settle on your spot for throwing handfuls of sand and then increasingly larger rocks into the pool. Eventually you became more adventurous and began wading in. Your pants were rolled up to your knees and every time you went deep enough that the water submerged the bottom portion of the cuffs I would holler and tell you that was too deep. You listened and returned to shallower water. With the ocean in the background I couldn't hear you, but I could tell from the bobbing of your head and sway of your body that you were singing out loud and talking to nobody in particular. You played happily in your own little world for quite some time. As you played I lamented the fact that although I love the sound of the waves and the beauty of the ocean, I really don't like sand. Sand in my fingernails, sand stuck between my toes, the dirty residue it leaves when you brush it off, sand in every nook and cranny of every item that makes the trip to the beach with me. It's just not for me. I'm not going to be the Mom that spends hours building wet goupy sand castles with you, or rolls around in the sand while tackling you during a game of chase.

When you finally made your way back to me, I asked if you wanted to take a walk. At first I thought I might coax you into the ocean, but it soon became clear that while you would go down near it, you had no intention of going in. I longed to walk down the beach, but since it still takes you about 45 minutes to walk around our block at home, I figured I would do way more standing while you investigated every little thing in your path. There is, after all, a virtually infinitesimal number of distractions over the course of just a few yards of sand.

To my luck, you stumbled upon the tire tracks of the beach ranger vehicle that had passed by earlier. You wanted to follow the tracks and started stomping and sometimes jogging down their trail and down the beach. Just as that ceased to interest you (quite a ways down actually) I saw a canvas of broken bits of shells up ahead. I pointed it out to you and it peaked your interest. We went over to investigate and started digging though the 3 inch thick layer of mollusk remains. We used some rocks to sift through things and you were constantly offering me your rocks to use. We were playing together, sharing our discoveries. You told me you were bigger than the shells.

At one point you stopped to ask me if I would be your friend. I paused, then responded saying, "I would love to be your friend, I will always be your friend, and I will always be your mommy." That was clearly not quite what you were looking for as when I finished you simply looked at me and asked again if I would be your friend. Ok, right, your two and a half (to the day). "Yes" I said. Apparently that answer was better, as you returned to what you were doing.

I don't know how long we played at that spot, but it seemed like quite long. Eventually we made our way back to camp, packed up our stuff, walked to the showers to clean up, then made the "treacherous" journey back to the car. All without a single peep of opposition from you. I had to keep pinching myself. These days most everything meets with opposition from you, so I was thoroughly enjoying and quite amazed by the ease at which this day had unfolded. Is this the way you'd be if you were always free to do what you wanted and had novel un-ending entertainment at your fingertips? No one else's schedule imposed upon you? Maybe. Sounds like a recipe for chaos to me, but I'm just a stuffy old responsible adult.

Before making the drive back over the hill, we ended our adventure with a trip to the farmers market to pick up some veggies for dinner, strawberries for dessert, and pasture raised eggs for breakfast. You started to unravel at this point, but I knew it was because you were both hungry and tired from your full day.

This is not a day I will soon forget. How fortunate I feel to have decided to make the trip to the beach. How much fun it was to watch you play and to play with you. How I am reminded that I need to remove myself from the distractions of daily life to spend quality time with you.

At the beach I'm not waiting for the load of laundry in the dryer to finish so I can take it out and put in the load already waiting in the washer. I'm not at the park with the sole purpose of making sure you get your outdoor play time and vitamin D for the day. I am just there with you, mostly in the moment, but also a little bit in the past in the form of reflection. Reminded that you are growing quickly into a boy. Caught off-guard by the definitiveness with which your life and development continue to march forward before my very eyes, and in spite of whatever. Your little extremities lengthening, your face narrowing, and your mind refining all the neural connections the experiences of your past 2.5 years have created.

It was a very good day.

Happy almost Mothers day to me.

Love,
Mom