Considering that we live in Southern California, we haven’t taken Mikey to the beach often enough in the 9 months we’ve had Mikey. I count X times: once with Aunt Kelly and Cousin Natalie to the rather grim beach just off Sunset Boulevard and Pacific Coast Highway where we stayed for about 10 minutes; once at the Huntington dog beach, because we were visiting our friends Lindsley and Jonathan; twice in Venice Beach, visiting friends, but only one of those times during the day when a beach is really a beach. There isn’t a great excuse for this negligence on our part. In the first couple of months, Mikey hated the bath and loathed our pool, so we didn’t think a trip to the beach would have been enjoyable for anything (this was, by the way, during the time of the 10 minute visit to the beach with Aunt Kelly and Cousin Natalie, which certainly would be evidence of that theory). Most of Mikey’s outdoor activities could be accomplished in our backyard or at one of the many parks in a three mile radius. Psychologically preparing ourselves to pack up, fight traffic, find parking, deal with crowds, there was always something that took precedence.
Besides, we figured, how much fun could a 2-year-old possibly have on the beach?
Now we know, and we feel guilty of depriving him of the beach, and the beach of him, for so long.
Our friends Georgie and Melissa live a few steps from the sand in Venice, and they love Mikey, so we get invited down frequently as part of his entourage. The last time they invited us down for brunch, which is sometimes a dangerous time for Mikey since his naps are pretty sacred and fall somewhere between 11:30 and 4:00 – basically, the same as brunch. We figured though if we went down early, we could play at the beach for a couple hours and do brunch at 11, and have Mikey in the car by 12. Or ideally, crashed out on a big fluffy pillow at Geogie and Melissa’s, but experience has cast serious doubts on the concept of the nap away from home dream.
Venice Beach, of course, is known as the crazy asylum of beach towns, alternately bohemian, chic, gang-ridden, and commercial, the home of hippies, millionaires, homeless folk, and bodybuilders. There’s no place quite like it, and it’s the second most visited tourist location in California, next to Disneyland. Fortunately, in January, it’s not very crowded, particularly at the pier, where Washington Boulevard turns into the ocean. There were just a couple beach-goers there with us, some ladies doing yoga in the sand, and the sea gulls.
When we had been there at night, Mikey had walked on the sand, looked out at the sea, and declared that he was okay on going back inside. This time as soon as we set him on the sand, he had his sandals off, and was running, shrieking with joy, at the water. At that moment, I realized we, in our madness, had not dressed him anything but a dry day at the beach, so I raced after him to roll up his sweatpants. In no time, he was soaked. We dried him off and put him in outfit #2. He jumped into the waves and fell face first. More drying, outfit #3. Not having an infinite diaper bag with an endless wardrobe of dry clothes, we were glad that we could distract him with other beach activities: collecting shells, terrorizing seagulls, using his favorite phrase “Big butt!” on hapless beach citizens.
We have no choice, we have to commit to trying to get out to the beach every weekend if we can. Oh, and the L.A. Zoo. And the Long Beach Aquarium.
I guess this is the theme of everyone’s childhood – so little time.
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