There's sand in the pocket of the jean skirt I'm wearing and it's all some damn bluejay's fault.
Ha ha, what?
For real. Papa bluejay decided to raise his family in the bushes around our daycare's outdoor play space, and now that the babies are hopping around he's attacking everyone and everything that moves.
So it's 80+ degrees out and all the kiddies are stuck indoors because if they venture out they're going to get divebombed by that crazy jay.
I guess I was feeling guilty about that so five minutes after I was supposed to be there to pick up my little ones I was furiously constructing sandwiches and rustling up a beach bag.
Kids need fresh air, ya know?
The thing about the beach is it's full of sand. I mean absolutely full of it. And there's apparently nothing my kids like more than rolling in it.
Unless the alternate option is eating it. On top of dropping his sammie about ten times without missing a bite, Bo tipped a whole cup full into his open maw. Then he smiled. And swallowed. Weirdo.
Can I just say how happy I'll be when the changing stations are actually open? (If they're ever open during the week, that is.)
Because I was combing sand of hair and trying to remember how to get it out of swimsuits for most of the early evening.
But they had fun so it's all good. That was, after all, the point. Papa bluejay may be an a-hole, but he was the inspiration for a beach picnic on a random Tuesday afternoon so he's got that going for him, I guess.
(I still hope he skedaddles soon.)