like that bike ride in Mary Poppins, but with dirty old men instead

Cyn, the kids, Ralph and I went off to the beach this morning where I discovered two things: A. I enjoy riding my bike in a skirt, and B. lots of other people do, too. My husband voiced his approval of what I was wearing before we left, but asked, “Can you ride in that?”, twin notes of disbelief and hope in his voice. While at the beach, every time I met his glance he would dart his eyes shiftily away from peering up my skirt or visually fondling my ass. But that’s cool; he’s allowed. The weird thing was I had more than a couple older dudes stare straight at me as if in some way I was inviting – nay, challenging – them to check up on it. I don’t care much either way if I’m ogled but was surprised at the attention, which bordered on grody.

Writing now, I realize this morning I was still in a sleep-and-drug induced fog coming off my substance abuse from the night before: two glasses of red wine, melatonin, and Nyquil tablets. The latter two were in desperate attempt to get to sleep despite the small miseries of sore throat and stuffed nose; discomforts that go virtually unnoticed during the day and throb painfully in the evening as you lay your head on the pillow. Today’s prescription: water, rest, boredom.

The kids napped late today, both going to sleep about 3 PM after getting a post-beach bath. Sunlight filtered through the house and a wonderful breeze played at the screen door, making it impossible to worry about much. Nels woke up after a “short” (hour and a half) nap. He lay in my arms in the living room, clutched against me and whining dramatically in response to any song or suggestion I made. I held him close, smelling his salty blonde curls and watching the grace of his shoulder blades playing under the newness of his smooth skin.

Tomorrow’s Monday, and my last housework day from Michelle. Passages of domestic life; some happy, many bittersweet.

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