Why I Don't Love Sand

And other troubles with the beach vacation.

Drop bathing suit. Insert nipple into mouth of nursing babe. Watch her back away with a look of resentful disgust, puckering her lips and shaking her head. No, she will not nurse at the salty bosom of a woman who has been swimming recently enough to still have seaweed cleaving to her cleavage.

This leads to the ritual washing of the breasts, over the sink, with water and dish soap. Three times I go back. I hope the neighbors are enjoying the show because, as it happens, I am not.

Also, too much sand in the diaper does in fact lead to diaper rash.

And, it's possible for a grain of sand to plant itself in one's foot, impersonating a garden variety splinter.

Look out for sand in your hair as well as on your pretzels. Sand on the pretzel does not constitute a salty pretzel. You have to dip it in the ocean for that.

But then, I am on the beach every day. There is simply nothing to complain about. Not even the tedious, frustrating thrice daily application of SPF during which all children will fight against you while you shout threateningly, "Do you want to get burned? Do you? DO YOU? I don't think so!!"

For the record, my son has responded to this rhetorical drama. "Yes, Mama, I want a burn."

Oh, so speak the innocents who have no idea, no idea, of the suffering I am ensuring they will never have. Good mommy. Sleep well at night mommy, in your sandy bed.