I’ve never been a beach person.
I mean, the sand finding its way into unmentionable places, and the walking around almost naked, and the so. much. hot. sun. Not a fan.
I’m not talking about West Coast beaches. Those are my fav. They’re majestic and rocky and glorious. And the water is made out of ice cubes. So you just look at those beaches. Look and don’t touch. Perfect.
But my brother-in-law and his fiancee are getting married on a Florida beach this weekend, so I’m getting acquainted with beaches.
I bought a swimsuit a few years ago. I’ve worn it a couple of times to places like hotel swimming pools in an effort to break myself into the almost nakedness. Louisville has done a pretty good job of breaking me into being HOT ALL THE TIME.
And the kids barely remember the California beaches, so I was tentatively excited about this vacation.
Except when it comes to the kids.
Isaiah knows no water fear. His favorite ocean pass time is to throw himself into a wave and go limp with his face under the water. LIKE HE’S DEAD. I can’t handle it.
Leah is kind of afraid of the water, so she heads into it a little and then freaks out because she needs to be rescued. And she gets salt and sand in her eyes every two minutes.
Both of them have this weird ability to do the opposite of what Chris and I are doing. When we sit down at the edge of the water to let the waves gently caress our toes, they head out into the deep and do the floppy dead fish thing. When we decide to play in the waves, they go make sandcastle on the shore.
So yes, I like the beach. I just don’t think I like the beach with kids.