Spending time at the Schlotzhauer family cottage is a little piece of sandy heaven. One of the key components contributing to any successful beach outing is the quality and quantity of the sand.
If kids are to fun as sand is to kids, then the more sand on the kids, the more fun they have.
If sand is to anus as stink is to monkey….well, you get the idea.
In an instant, our cottage where cleanliness is next to Godliness, becomes a series of miniature sand pyramids located at any stopping point the children have visited. The obvious castles demarking all entryways and exits, the small, sand pile in front of the toilets and thankfully, the sinks and despite our scrubbing, hosing and ferocious bathing methods, you will find tiny crystals in their beds.
The mattresses actually elude me because it’s not obvious to the naked eye but gives a good luffa-ing to the palm of your hand when straightening a wrinkle in a blanket before bed.
“Has anybody seen my pumice stone?” No need, just stand in front of the craft table and rub your feet back and forth twice.
Not unlike finding dog hair twelve years after living with a husky, two homes ago, I will be finding sand in places I never thought possible, in car-seat baby’s sippy cup for example. Why would her cup have one spec of sand in or on it having never visited the beach, nor her mouth for that matter as I still can’t figure out how to wean her. In my toothbrush, in my shampoo, my camera batteries and in our food, it’s floating on the fan wings looking for an unsuspecting area of floor to pounce on. How it ever climbed up there will remain a mystery.
Miles to go before I sleep if only I had brooms for feet, becomes my mantra at the lake.
“Mommy, Daddy told us there is more sand on the earth than there are stars in the sky.”
“He’s right honey. Actually, there’s more sand in your raisin bran than stars in the sky.”
“Daddy!!! Mommy says……”
Car-seat baby has been assigned a new name, “Sandy”, or “Sandra” when she’s being disciplined or when she wants to be formal for resume writing purposes. She has eaten no less than forty-nine fistfuls of sand with no interest in slowing down. The grit doesn’t bother her, she has acquired a taste for what must be dehydrated animal droppings, enjoys the texture and smiles a muddy, toothy grin if she can get hand to mouth before I can dive towards her (causing more sand to spill all over us both, ironic no?).
