Stupid Sandbox
The playground outside our building is in a big figure-8 of sand, which, though it breaks the fall of many a startled toddler, is not the most fun to deal with in general.
I’m from Texas, but I’ll be honest: I’m not a beach person. I will ride a horse on the beach, and I’ll camp out with a bonfire. I’ll even hang out for an hour or two and let Dash run in and out of the baby waves in Galveston. I won’t, however, “lay out” or migrate to the beach every summer under the influence of cocoa butter and spandex. It’s just not for me.
Plus, sand is annoying. Leave it to sand to be a constant reminder of either your worst sunburn ever or your near-death experience parking on the strand. Leave it to sand to fall out of every orifice in your body, laughing to itself and declaring itself victor over your entire day.
“Ha ha! I am sand and I am in EVERYTHING! Shoes, hair, bra, diaper, mouth, ear, fingernail, ass crack! I defy you to rid yourself of me!”
Only sand challenges Sophie’s ability to lodge her fur in every possible location. Mike actually found Sophie hair in his desk at work the other day. Furious, he called me to complain.
“There is Sophie hair in my desk drawer.”
“And?”
“HOW DID IT GET HERE?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only been there once and obviously she’s never been there. Maybe you took some with you from home.”
“NO! I don’t ‘take’ Sophie’s hair anywhere! It latches on and refuses to leave, like a Cuban refugee clutching an escape raft. No one takes Sophie’s hair, the hair invites itself to everything!”
“Look, when you are in charge of keeping the house clean you can complain about Sophie’s hair.” [Refer to this post for details]
So the last two days have been beautiful here, and Dash has gone outside to play with his friends both days. The first day, there was only one brief sand fight [they can’t help it, they’re toddlers: anything not bolted to the ground needs to be tossed at someone or something], and bathtime was surprisingly easy. I shook his clothes out over the trash can and watched a steady stream of sand fall into the basket. I washed out sand from all his crevices, and made sure there was none on his scalp. Still, in the back of my mind, I heard sand laughing at me. It had plans for us.
Yesterday, I was sitting on the bench with my friend when I noticed Dash on the outskirts of the group, rubbing his eyes. I started to walk over to him, and realized he had both eyes shut tight, and he was rubbing his little sand-covered paws furiously into them. He couldn’t see, and was stumbling into the barriers around the edge of the playground. Unable to take his hands off his eyes, he tried to walk towards me but failed.
Right away I tried to get the sandy hands off his face so my somewhat cleaner hands could attempt to rid him of the sand. He wasn’t having it. Aside from the fact that he was impulsively thrusting his sand-mits right back into his eyes, I could tell that there was so much sand in his eyes that he was going to need it washed out with water.
I took him upstairs and sat him on the sink, almost in a panic because I knew what was about to happen. He wasn’t crying yet, but he was close. He was rubbing his eyes - I had to make him stop. My heart breaking, I ran the water over the sink and held his arms at his sides, lifting him up into the sink. I splashed water in his eyes several times as he struggled underneath my grasp. I let him wash his hands off so he could try to rub again - maybe he’d be able to get it out on his own.
No luck. After another eye wash and more struggling, he still wasn’t crying, but he also wasn’t done rubbing. Clearly there was still something in his eyes. My experience in the ER was nudging me, and I couldn’t ignore it anymore. He had to cry. He had to cry so the tears could wash his eyes out from the inside.
WHY WASN’T HE CRYING? This is a child who throws himself on the floor and flops around like a fish when someone says “No more pudding”, why the hell isn’t he crying when he has his eye sockets brimming with EVIL SAND?
I only had one option. I washed his eyes out again, but instead of holding him towards the sink face first, and leaned him over the edge backwards. The discomfort with the position alone was enough to get the tears flowing. I let the water run off my fingers into his eyes, then rolled him over on his stomach again to (hopefully) let the sand out. Drying him off, I breathed a sigh of relief and sadness as he finally started to cry. The hot tears ran down his little face and he looked at me like I was the worst parent in the world. I had to stay calm or I was going to cry, too. For the first time in a half an hour, he didn’t have his fists in his eyes, so I knew I had been successful in at least that respect, but I felt like garbage.
THIS FUCKING SAND HAS FORCED ME TO INTENTIONALLY MAKE MY CHILD CRY.
Hey sand? It’s ON.
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