Beached

I missed a couple of days, and now I’m at my mom’s house in Tampa. She and my Aunt Pattie came out to Daytona and shared a hotel room on the beach; Dave and Kiki stayed in another room.

It was really a lovely little vacation. I had no idea how much Vi would like the beach. In the mornings, I would slather her with sunscreen and sausage her into her little yellow bathing suit and we’d go right on down. There were beach chairs and umbrellas for rent, but the guy didn’t come around for the $25 until 1 p.m., so mostly we just sat there until lunchtime for free and then cleared out. Tacky! But $25, hey. Dave and Kiki would appear around 10, and we’d all go into the water for a while. Dave kept bringing little gadgets for Violet to play with, like waterguns.

“Don’t you shoot me!” he warned her. “Don’t you shoot!” And of course she would, laughing mightily. I think her relationship with Uncle Dave caught fire this trip. She was afraid of him last time; now whenever he walked away from her she’d shrill “Uncle David, Uncle David!” She had fun with her aunt and uncle, digging a little swimming pool on the beach.

“Ah, what are you dooooing?” said Kiki, mock-upset. “You have to take the dirt out of the hole. Out! Don’t throw it back in! This is no way to run a railroad.”

“Run railroad,” agreed Violet, nodding her head. “Swim poo.” She put her feet in and tromped down the sand gleefully.

I miss the beach already. I haven’t washed Violet’s hair yet and she smells like the seashore; I’ll be sad when that smell’s gone and the last of the beach with it. Back here in Tampa it’s been raining, and I feel worn out. My mom, however, is a champion; she cooks for us and is the only human on earth besides Phil who actually offers to change Vi’s diaper, or “her pants,” as mom calls it. She’s so good at playing with Violet that I can get long strings of things done; books read, food made.

Last night I cut the potatoes while Mom and Vi played in the living room. “Let’s get in the car and go to the store,” suggested Mom, indicating the swivel chair. They sat together. “What will we get?” Mom asked. “Nanas, milk, bokly,” answered Violet. “OK, then! Bananas, milk and broccoli! Here we go!” They swivel together.

“Toot toot!” says Mom, blowing the horn. “Toot toot,” echoes Violet, faintly. "I need my baby!"

"Of course, of course, we must bring the baby," says Mom, hauling one of twelve stuffed animals up to the "car." Violet wails. "Whoops, guess I got the wrong one," says Mom.

"Don't you ever get tired of being so very very wrong?" I retort from the kitchen.

Mom brings Pinky onto the chair, and Violet is satisfied. The good friends have their heads together, laughing. I make a picture in my head, this I want to remember.