Sea Shore

You loved the beach. And why wouldn't you? Sand and shells and water. Running and running and running, barefoot and practically naked, people you love running just behind you, laughing enough so you always know they're there. What's not to love?

You ate your oatmeal on a deck overlooking the Atlantic and spent the early evening hours scurrying around the outdoor courtyard restaurants where we ate dinner. You hugged your aunt Agnes every chance you got. You slept in a closet in our bedroom (coat hangers moved out of reach). You frantically tried to escape the Bearer of Sunscreen, usually via a screaming, half-naked, tippy-toed run through the apartment. You failed to nap in bed with Daddy and I. Instead, as we tried to sleep, you would say, in a tiny-curious-mouse-voice, "poop?" And then "Poop?" And then "POOP!!!" You wore a T-shirt and ruffle-butt swim bottoms and a floppy, tropical-fruit bedecked hat during the day, hair damp and skin gritty from the sun. In the evenings, you wore a clean T-shirt and capri pants and sandals, hair wet with comb-lines, skin smooth and soft. You crumbled play-doh and sorted sea-shells and named two tiny Panda bears "Tit" and "Tat." (Tit was the girl and Tat was the boy. Duh.) You gave a lecture to a German couple on the beach and waded through warm, low-tide pools. You were terrified of the waves and then curious about the waves. You permitted us to bury your feet in the sand and you ate as many blueberries as your current caregiver would permit.

Now we are home. 10 degrees when we woke up this morning. Snow on the ground and ice on the car. I am in a terrible mood. I want another week in Florida. I want air you can just walk into--no sweating or shivering--just pleasant air on the skin. I want more green, more flowers and outdoor patios, more silver tongue of the moon on unsettled ocean skin. But you--well, as much as you enjoyed the beach, you seem quite happy to be home too. And I will now sound like a Chicken Soup for the Soul book about the heartwarming lessons children teach us when we least expect it BUT--the truth is, what is in front of you is the only option you understand. I mean, you also understand the option of "the animal crackers hidden on top of the refrigerator" but you aren't plagued by a different version of life that runs parallel to you, you aren't plagued by "what-ifs" or "other possibilities." This morning you had oatmeal and canned peaches and your stuffed cat. Familiar toys. The promise of playing trains with Daddy once the coffee was made. And you were happy.

Adam and Eve always struck me as kind of a silly story. I mean, Eve wasn't supposed to eat the apple, sure, but who doesn't want KNOWLEDGE? All my life, I've been taught how important knowledge is. My parents are teachers, after all, and knowledge keeps history from repeating itself and helps us empathize and makes us better pool players (reflection!). But lately, Thiz, I have been feeling crushed under the weight of it. All this knowing there is to do. I love being in touch with friends on Facebook--but now I check in to see if they've had their babies or published their books or seen "Avatar" in 3D. And then there's the world and its tsunamis and bombings, famines and disease. And then family and immediate friends and colleagues. Jobs to research and parenting techniques to perfect. For the first time in my life, knowledge feels like sin, feels like a kind of darkness. But I am terrified of ignorance too. I want to be a good Mama. A published writer. I want to be well read and kick ass at the Cow quiz night (insert shout out to Emily and Dan here)--but fuck. The tremendousness of all there is to know makes me feel hopeless and impotent too.

For three days I didn't check my e-mail and didn't (really) watch the news. I read a few chapters in a book. Heard about Japan straight from Michael on the phone. I sat on the beach with you and watched water fill up the hole we were digging. I want to learn the way you do. The knowledge that's necessary, that helps me move forward. I want to formulate questions before Google feeds me a million answers, most of which I cannot possibly use.