I played in the sand this evening. Up to my elbows and across my lap. I didn't worry about getting gritty—I only cared about sharing a memory with my kids and reconnecting with my inner-child.
There was a fair amount of rain earlier today. Not enough to create standing water but it soaked the ground just right. The “sand pit” in the yard was perfect for building tunnels and towers. So down I went. A pale dusting of sand covered my black crop pants within seconds. By the time the first tunnel was constructed, and the Matchbox van successfully pushed through, damp sand clung to my bare arms. Somewhere between the second tunnel and the sandcastle mound the grit worked its way down my shirt. It might have happened when I grabbed the littlest Godzilla before she could collapse the prized passages.
By the time we were finished, I was far dirtier than the kids . Instead of trying to brush the sand off I rubbed it between my hands and fingers, then up and down my arms. My skin is now smoother than it's been for ages.
On a different note:
Yesterday I finished reading Alice I Have Been by Melanie Benjamin. It's a historical novel about the life of Alice Liddell, who was the inspiration for Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. What could have become a scandalous story was treated with dignity. The emotions were sensual and honest but the whole story was respectful. The ending unveils what I wish to believe of Mr. Do-do-dodgson and young Alice.