Which means that there's just not that much to do. Oh, there are parks; entertaining a child in Victoria in nice weather is easy as parking yourself at the nearest beach or park, and lazily watching them do their thing. It's nice that way.
But God forbid it rains.
**********
We're off to the beach. I get out the sunscreen. The daycare is militant about sunscreen, which I greatly appreciate being pasty white and freckled (although my child has somehow inherited his father's gorgeous golden skin tone, the lucky thing) but which means that my child HATES sunscreen. He does, however, want to go to the beach.
"I can't wear the sunscreen." he informs me.
I'm not prepared to budge on this one, as it is sunny outside and we'll be there at the hottest part of the day. He is offered the choice of beach -- which he does want -- and sunscreen, or no sunscreen and no beach. He ponders.
"The sunscreen dries on my body at the end of the day." he ventures.
I allow as how that is probably true.
"Then it falls off my body."
I register some surprise at this fact.
"Then it falls into the road. And the cars can't go. And the cars HAVE to go, mommy."
He looks at me for confirmation of his superior logic skills, as if expecting me to capitulate immediately and release him from the necessity of sunscreen. To protect the cars.
********
We are at the same beach, mere blocks from my house, that I frequented as a child. I've mentioned before that the sound of the waves makes me calm; this beach in particular is a comforting place, it has the familiarity of home. I look around at the surrounding cliffs and see the latest erosion. I look at the rocks that I remember climbing on during a first grade field trip and the rocks several years later where I found the engraved silver ring. I remember the friends I came there with, I remember bringing my grandmother down the long stairs to the water. There are ghosts everywhere, but they are laughing, playing, happy ghosts. I smile at them, and hope that one day, I will come back here and see the ghost of myself as a young mother, with my happy three year old.
********
For a child who can't get over the television at my parents' house, and declares it is all he wants to do, he sure is enjoying the beach. He is all over the place, digging, splashing, walking in the water, picking up rocks and wet sand and piling them, digging holes, filling buckets, hoping to see small crabs. I build him a castle, which is nothing more than a moat with a flat place inside where he can stand, since he stomped all the sand down.
The place is mostly deserted when we get there, a few college kids here and there. The university is only a few blocks away. Soon after we get there, a few more come, and a few more. I admit that I admire one guy without a shirt -- he's got that long physique, lightly muscled, thin hips and wider shoulders. The place is full of guys -- it's a great place for boogeyboarding, because there's a long stretch of sand with shallow water, and there's a dozen or more of them in about an hour. I wonder why there are suddenly so many of them, and realize that it's 2pm, that the nearby high school just let out for Friday. I've been ogling a high school kid.
Ew.
*********
We move up the beach, away from the water. The top half of the beach is rocks, ranging in size from cooler size to tiny pebbles. We seat ourselves on a nice pile of them in behind a patch of sand. The Boy clambers barefoot behind me, gamely following along. I'm amazed, but don't offer to help -- he's a sensitive kid, and walking over rocks or sand has sometimes caused howls of outrage, and I'm not about to interrupt this, even though he punctuates each step with "ouch. ouch. ouch. ouch. ouch. ouch. ouch."
I love the rocks. As a kid, my parents used to think I would be a geologist, I would collect so many. I got in trouble at my early private school for putting rocks from the playground into the pockets of my uniform. I still don't know why that was a problem.
The Boy continues his clambering, up on logs and over rocks, down to the water and back again. I sit on the rocks, combing through them. I pick up a few, hold them in my hands. I like the smoothest ones, the tactile sensation of them, the weight of them. I hold them, turning them over and over, it's somehow immensely soothing. Between the sounds of the ocean and the rocks in my hands, I'm more relaxed than I have been all week. I realize that this would have been a far better choice than yesterday's ill fated trip to the land of knitwear.
Eventually I have filled an ice cream tub with rocks. I'm going to take them home, to my office, get a small bowl. And look at them each time someone asks me to write something I really don't want to do. Or just when I don't want to be there. Or just because. I miss this beach, and I think that having its rocks with me will be a little piece of home.
********
The Boy is convinced that the rocks are dinosaur eggs. He brings me rock after rock, hatches them and then chases the dinosaurs away. He roars at them. Eventually he starts pretending he IS a dinosaur, and roars at me.
"You're a chef!" he roars in a growly voice. "Turn into a chef and then I WILL DESTROY YOU."
I have no idea what he has against fine cuisine. Sometimes I wonder if maybe he's a little insane.
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