Trying to blog on vacation and constantly foiled by little boys who want to go to the beach — can you imagine? Seriously. Life is rough around here.
John’s feet slide off his bed, hit the floor and it’s all “Mommy, beach party? Go beach party?”
He packs up his crew in the “Monster Bag” and starts undressing. By himself. He finds his swimsuit, my swimsuit and thrusts them at me as if saying, Hello! Did you hear me? Let’s go! I say “John, it’s too early,” or “John, it’s cloudy,” but really? I would probably take him in the rain.
Now, granted: he will absolutely, positively, no way, no how — step off the beach blanket or enter the water. But he will sit or stand for long stretches as long as he has them near — his harem of happy monsters.
I’m more than a little jealous, as I imagine they are privy to more of him than I am. Why, for example, is this summer different from last? Why won’t he step off the blanket and run down the beach with me in hot pursuit? Not that I’m complaining — it’s been much easier to be at the beach together. But why did he hide under the blanket the first day as if his ears hurt from the surf and now he can smile serenely and be just a few feet from the crashing waves?
He brings his monsters up close to his face, lovingly, and talks excitedly to each. I make out, “Wake up Elmo…hello Zoe!” then watch as he lays each back down on the blanket, gentle as one must be with one’s babies.