A Day Like Any Other

It hasn't been too long since I've written, but a month has passed since I last published any thoughts.  The end of June and the beginning of July have been a series of disruptions ranging from sleepless nights and childhood fevers to the death of loved ones, and relapses into serious illness. Today was no different, and we endured both sleeplessness and tragic news.  Even so, each morning we rise, done our swimsuits, and head to the beach.  We have only three months in which to roam the sand, surrounded by loved ones; drenched in sunlight, wind and salty spray. Wasting one of these days in doors feels, to me, like a grave offense.

Last night, our son's brain endured a massive, painful transition.  Or, at least, this is what we imagine must have kept him awake until 4:40 in the morning, only to rise a few hours later, with a noticeably stronger grasp of language and vocabulary.

"Please bring the toenail clippers to me, Tristan; they are not a toy for children," I asked him, in the groggy and disoriented voice of one who hasn't had nearly enough sleep in several days.

He squinted at me for a moment, and then, in a thoughtful voice, said, "No."

"Tristan, you are going to hurt yourself, please bring me those clippers." 

This time he paused only briefly, and a note of jubilee entered his tone. "No," he said.

"Tristan, can you bring that to Bella?"  This would be my last attempt to persuade him to surrender the clippers willingly, and I was already moving toward him.  A glint of playful challenge entered his eyes, and he tucked his toy behind his back.

"No," he said, happily, backing away. 

As of now, I remain quicker and more flexible than him, and it was quite easy to snatch the toenail clippers out of his tiny hands.  He may have shrieked, but I don't remember.  I'm also unsure of what I did with the clippers, other than placing them somewhere out of reach.  These memories are among many that exhaustion has stolen from me. All I can really recall about the two hours that followed this exchange is a strong urge to sleep.  It's still with me.  The urge to play in the sand and splash in the waves was stronger.  The urge to write is stronger, now. So we went.

  My three little men filled their lungs with fresh, sea air, and stretched their faces into smiles and giggles.  They hopped in between cool shade and bright sunlight, and they ran along the edge of the ocean.  They were wrapped in a thousand hugs, and heard countless voices cover them in love.

Like so many days, recently, today was punctuated with difficulty and loss.  It was lived through the foggy, half-vision of fatigue.  It was colored by the deep hues of Aquidneck Island shores in July.

Tristan learned to defy me, and we went to the beach.  I will think of everything else tomorrow.