A little sorting of things here, my birthdate to blame.

Yesterday's highlight was me relaxing face down on a flannel sheet beside warm Lake Erie waves. Kids' toys were an extra couple of feet away. I was available for shielding baby's wet body chills from the breeze, however. The he that everyone calls a she--the littlest one with the brown, virgin curls--held onto me for long amazing breaths before romping off to join the others. I believe I had it as made as my beach neighbor in the Speedo, sprawled out on a leopard fleece next to his day's worth of beach gear and white leather tennis shoes ... except his enjoyment was so easy. He didn't have to overcome such a thing as being hit on the soft part of the back of the head by an excited three year-old pebble thrower (who stands firm on his description of a big rock and a good throw. The kid even gave me the Mr. Bump ice pack when I later mentioned the pain.) I had it better, then. I have it very good.

[I was going to end with that but why not share the lesson I just taught Lloyd: the headphones plug should not plug into any part of his potty-training pantsless self.]