Don't Wake the Baby

On this post July 4th afternoon, I would just like to take a moment to warn you that we parents have the ability to turn ourselves into 65 megaton thermonuclear warheads when our children's sleep is threatened. For once, I do not exaggerate. It is only due to incredible restraint that we do not Kill Your Head Off when you play with your stupid bottle caps, have your inane arguments, and honk your dumber than dumb horns during precious, precious nap time. Thank you for your attention to this matter.

The beach is so funny. I love it, like everyone else does, maybe a bit more than most. I'm not afraid of sharks or jellyfish. I'm afraid of the rip currents. My grandfather would say that was a fear appropriately placed, though he, like all southerners, called it "the under-toe."

When I come to the beach I turn into a bit of a poetic megalomaniac. I suddenly think I am the one the beach is for. Like I alone cannot live without the ocean, like I alone am destined to live on the shore, in a distressed (yet new construction) beach bungalow with a massive deck and infinity pool and a man-servant named James. Sometimes in the midst of these crazy thoughts, I honestly believe it is original to want to live near the ocean, in spite of the prices of shoreline real estate. Or, I don't think that, exactly, but rather that I want it More Than Anyone Else. We all think this when we go to the beach, and I suppose we all think all the other things I think, too.

1) How have I survived so long without the sound of waves, the smell of salty air, blah, blah, blah?

2) Why do I not drink beachy drinks like this all the time?

3) How come I don't have any decent bathing suits? followed quickly by (if you're a woman):

4) Who is the torturing sadist who came up with the whole women's swimwear thing?

I noticed after 3 & 4, when I took a stroll to the nearby marketplace, that none of the beach shops sell women's bathing suits, though they all sell men's. This is because nobody wants to get killed. When I asked, they had the nerve to look as if selling women's swimwear had never occurred to them. Lying bitches.

I did enjoy my little shopping jaunt, which occurred during nap time. (You see why it's so important, people?) I bought two bottles of wine. Then I came back and had parent nap time with B.

Ari's cream towel

We've had one other shopping trip at the beach. The rental didn't have any bath towels, and we'd only brought beach towels. We didn't have enough to double use them, since we've been swimming twice a day. Luckily, Delaware has no sales tax and scads of outlets, so we went to the Ralph Lauren Factory Store where we let Ari choose his own towel. "What color do you want?" I asked him, prepared for pink or lilac. "Cweam!" he said, grabbing like six of the cream ones. "Um, really?" I said, "Do you understand you're a three-year-old?" "Don't you want purple or green or yellow or blue?" asked B. "I. Want. Cweam." he said. "Cweam! I want a cweam towel. Stop askin' me!" What I think he meant was, "Get with it, mommies. I said I wanted cream, why is that so bizarre? People buy cream towels everyday, all over this country. It's a regular cream towel extravanganza, so please get a hold of yourselves and stop acting like I'm some kind of freak. It's embarrassing."

The towel up close. Could I be a product photographer, or what?

So we got him the cream. At first I thought he was being boring, but now we've gotten it back to the beach rental, and I took another look. It is a stunning shade of cream, I must say. Not yellowy or dingy-white at all, not derivative of some other color the way so many creams are, but its own unique shade. That boy has a good eye.