It’s been perfect beach weather here in Los Angeles…80 degrees…cloudless sky…no wind.
Any normal mother would take advantage of the weather by packing up sunblock, a bathing suit, some snacks and her kid, and driving 10 minutes west to the beach.
Except that this normal mother swore up and down not too long ago that she would never, ever take her kid to the beach again. Ever.
Picture this…it’s 2008. Maya needs to go potty. I’m in flip-flops, Maya is in flip-flops, and the only available bathroom is covered in inches of sand and water and God only knows what else. There is no soap. There is no toilet paper. There are no seat covers. There are bugs. And lots of gross people milling about.
Did I mention there is no soap?
Stuff splashed on my feet. I still have no idea what it was. It splashed on Maya’s feet too as we waded through what can best be described as muck. And Maya had to sit on the dirtiest…my God forget it. It’s too terrible to rehash. I get shivers just thinking about it. I’ve blocked it out of my mind. For good.
After we left the beach that day I scrubbed Maya up and down for about 10 minutes in the hottest water she could stand. And then I did the same to myself. And I told Ali to do the same even though he was nowhere near the bathroom. He knew better than to point out my flawed logic.
Call me inflexible. Call me crazy. But until Maya masters the art of hovering we will not be going to the beach again.