My mother and I took to the beach in the early mornings last week. I’m not usually an early riser when beaching it, but the effort comes with bonuses.
Early beachgoers have their pick of prime spots to set up camp. But that’s not the best part.
Early beachgoers dodge crowds and heat stroke. But that’s not the best part.
Early beachgoers often find whole seashells. But even that is not the best part.
The best part?
Early beachgoers are entertained by a parade of dogs and kids.
Big dogs and small dogs. Girl kids and boy kids. Old dogs and young dogs. Babies and toddlers.
Dogs that will chase balls and dogs that won’t. Kids who won’t get out of the water and kids who won’t get in.
One morning, we witnessed a black Labrador attack a Golden Retriever. It was an in-water scuffle.
Not long after the fortunately quick dogfight, a dark-haired girl, about four-years-old, tiptoed across the waves near our chairs.
Trailing behind her was an attractive young woman—the kind who makes someone like me wonder what it would be like to be someone like her.
The woman was pretty and fit and obviously the little girl’s mom. But that’s not the best part.
Under each arm, she carried a toddler boy—the way a farmer would carry two young goats that had eaten more than their fair share of chocolate.
Mom and I waded in the surf as we watched the young mother wrestle to hold onto the squirming boys.
The twins, I’d say, were 15-18 months-old. They appeared identical in facial features, stocky builds, haircuts, and energy levels.
Their mother carried them for a few moments. Then, exhausted, she lowered them to the ground. Their two pairs of short legs bicycled in place before their feet hit the sand.
Off they went in opposite directions, and they were quick. Their momma finally snared the one bound for water, then raced to catch his brother.
This scenario played out over and over, always ending with the mother scooping the twins up and under her arms, holding them—their legs churning—until her strength gave out.
At one point, the two finally took a break and made a mad dash toward the empty chairs belonging to my mother and me.
“It’s fine,” we said. “They can have them.”
And it was fine for about two seconds. Then the twins decided to stand—near tipping over.
The pretty mom rushed to their rescue. Problem was, the boys did not care to be rescued. They had what my Uncle Donald called “a Hell’s fire fit.”
And big sister? She walked along with a “they don’t belong to me” air about her, but I know she secretly wondered, “What happened to my great and uncomplicated life?”
Once upon a time, three children—all under age four—lived with Gary and me in our this “ole house.” I learned a great many quick lessons during that time.
Lesson 1: Rest when they nap. If I did a few things around the house first, they always—and I mean always—were up and ready to roll the minute I sat down.
Lesson 2: Pick up toys only once a day—after the babies are down for the night. Picking toys up throughout the day is a waste of time.
Lesson 3: Don’t blink. As soon as I blinked, they skipped off to college.
Three children under four kept me busy, but my busy could not compare to the beach mom’s busy.
My guess is the mother of twins plus one frequents a gym—for adult company and rest. She gets more exercise than she needs and it’s free—at Twin Fitness.