Late spring or early summer, the professor went to Rona. He returned with a few bags of sand. Fifty dollars’ worth. Which, I have to say, seemed like a lot of money for….sand. But if averaged out over the 68 days of summer, it translates into less than $1 a day to entertain all three boys.
Yes, there have been fights. Many fights. Many screams heard ’round the neighborhood: ‘He’s wrecking my…….’ Followed with the injured party seeking vengeance by wrecking someone else’s something or throwing sand at the wrecker. And it’s more drama than a soap opera. Frequently culminating in me whisper-yelling through clenched teeth ‘are you on fire? Did someone stab you with a knife? You.cannot.scream.like.that.unless.those.things.are. happening.to.you.’
As I said before, I’m sure our neighbors hate us. [But to be fair, they have a perpetually barking dog, so we’re – if not exactly even – at least 70-30 in my estimation.]
There are sandprints (that’s sand-handprints) on my walls. Sand in the kitchen and the living room and the bathroom and the bedroom. And sand in the laundry room. And in the boys’ hair. And I fear all of their clothes are permanently tainted with wetsand stains. And at this point, most of their toys have been dragged outside and are buried in a few inches of sand.
They’ve also spent hours sitting side-by-side in a rectangular box. Building. Playing. And, on occasion, getting along.
Brothers and friends.