The Beach and Birdy

We had our last beach hurrah of the summer this weekend, at Grandbob's house in Bethany Beach. This summer, beach preparations have been more fun because both kids can remember from one trip to the next what the beach house is like, which fun things we do there, and similar important concepts. Last summer I feel like I spent many hours on several occasions explaining to R what a "beach" actually is. This year, we pulled out the beach bag and R said, "Oooh! I LOVE the beach! I LOVE Grandbob's beach house!" I wanted to hug him with gratitude for his little developing neural pathways. This year, I only needed to spend some time explaining (or choosing not to explain) the difference between the "ocean" and the "sea," the fact that sharks would not bother us on the sandy expanse or in water that covers only our toes, and the distinction between "popsicles" and "lollipops."

S faced off against her most stubbornly bossy new friend (read: kindred spirit) in the form of J, our friends' Jean and Chris' 4 year old daughter. She was a little juggernaut in white miniskirts and S was obviously flabbergasted by her encounter with a littler girl who would not only not kowtow, but who stood up for herself-- loudly and effectively. Watching S try to work it out was, I say with some measure of guilt, rather amusing. First the two of them just raised their voices, trying to out-shout each other. Then, they started insulting: S said to J that she was "just like Veruca Salt, who is the baddest kid ever in all the bad-kid movies," but J won that round when, unperturbed by Wonka references, she told S she simply wasn't her friend. S dissolved into hiccupping tears and told any grownup who would listen. The only incident that actually disturbed me was when they began arguing about the Steelers and the Ravens, with their little fingers pointing at each others' noses: "The Steelers are no good!" "But, the Ravens are just mean!" Jean and I both found this disturbing and annoying, mostly because these xenophobic football impulses originated with the respective fathers, who were schlepping beach stuff and therefore didn't have to endure the consequences of their brainwashing. Unfortunately, after Jean and I bellowed and threatened until the girls backed off, both of the men were actually more disappointed to have missed the catfight than they were contrite.

R loved the waves this time. D took him out into the deeper water and held him up as they swelled up and down. My little blond sea sprite came running up the beach afterward to tell me about it (I did manage to watch, although I cringed a lot because it constantly looked as though D was about to drown), slowly bouncing up and down with his knees bending: "And all the big waves came, and they went UP and DOWN and we went UP and DOWN and I was in all the big waves!!" For the record, D assures me that despite appearances to my panicked eye, he never went beyond where he could easily stand, having learned last year in the Chesapeake Bay that trying to tread water while holding a kid is not his idea of fun.

S likes the water, too, but she still prefers either playing imagination games in the sand (like "finding" buried treasure -- usually after having buried it first) or, even better, finding new kids to talk to. She and J battled over sand buckets and who kicked in whose sand-hole, and each constantly ordered the other to play the game she was playing. It reminded me of trying to be effective at the office while working with someone who just rubs you the wrong way. What a disappointment that kids have that issue, too.

Oh -- a very important book recommendation. Waiting for Birdy, by Catherine Newman, is a really, truly, amazingly wonderful collection of essays about the year during which the author was pregnant with (and newly mother of) her second child, Birdy, while raising her three-year-old son, Ben. This is, I gather, mostly a compilation of Ms. Newman's columns called Bringing Up Ben and Birdy, which she wrote (writes?) for BabyCenter.com. Check out some columns here: http://www.babycenter.com/search/showResultsForContent.htm?cTab=ARTICLE&queryString=birdy

Waiting for Birdy made me cry, laugh out loud enough that I looked around sheepishly as if Oscar the cat might be glaring at my lack of poise (which in fact he often does), and, at one, point, spit out my milk. The best part is, I think it would have made me do all those things even if I weren't pregnant. The writing is full of crazy-perfect metaphor, and the author's experiences are just universal enough to make you love her, just organic-crunchy-no-TV-pacifist-lefty-New-England enough to make you feel a little awestruck. It helps that she's not rich because she's a writer. Even if she makes her own organic baby food and feeds her toddler tofu cubes, it's hard to hate someone whose furniture is from the Salvation Army and whose Christmas ornaments are all gifts from in-laws. Plus, she doesn't send one iota of smugness your way. She is genuine, and her various friends, who appear in cameos, usually saying the things you're thinking, like, "Um, yeah, there are drugs to help you with that," are all people you end up wanting to meet. Ms. Newman is also a total ball of neuroses and anxieties, wrapped up in passionate love for her family. And she's a really good writer. Even if you don't remember being pregnant or never want to have kids, read the book!