The Seaside

My darling girl,

We went away for a week to your grandparents’ house by the sea. You threw stones in the water and ate moules and chips by the bowlful. You put your piggies in the cold sea. I was so proud because while your daddy had to work on the computer I managed to drive you to the beach a couple of times. Just me and you, sweetheart! Mummy and Sofia.

I’ve finally entered the happy, buzzy phase of pregnancy and was on my peak form for most of the week. We’re a great team now. You can – and indeed insist upon – climbing in and out of your car seat by yourself now. I just have to let you take your time, coax you along a bit when you get distracted from the job, and then strap you in and we’re off. The days of having to heave you into the back seat of our three-door hatchback are over. The world feels almost oyster-like.

The first time we venture out to new pastures together are always precarious. I can never predict what the hurdles might be. For example, you needed much convincing that the sand on the beach was even bigger and better than the sand you encountered in the car park. Another mum would have just parked you on her hip and brought you to the sea’s edge as proof. But I had to find the words to entice you across those metres of undulating sand over which the sparkling sea could finally be glimpsed. You’re so good at walking now that you're two, but you do need a good, well-argued reason for putting one foot consistently in front of the other, in a linear fashion, towards an often nebulous goal.

And I have to learn that’s it’s all very well in theory bringing a camping chair to the beach to support my back while seated. But if I can’t carry it along with the blanket, beach bag and buckets and spades and still be able to hold your hand, it’s worse than useless.

Then there’s the timing issue. After coaxing you across the sand dunes, setting up camp, dutifully smothering you in suncream, ensuring your correct attire against the perils of sun and wind and getting out of my own shoes and socks I was ready for a lie down. But you were just then bowled over by the grandeur of the ocean before us. So I couldn’t not take you there and then down to the breaking waves. And stand there with the lifeforce draining out of me, holding both your hands so the tide’s force wouldn’t topple you over. And share with you your first seaside thrill.

So by the time your daddy joined us I was prone and breathless on the sand like a beached whale. And I watched him teach you how to run away from the scary waves and jump into them as they approached. Not just stand there like me. And your confidence grew with your delight. And you soon forgot that first thrill of cold and enormity with mummy.

But the next time we went to a smaller, sheltered bit of beach. And our teamwork was perfected. The waves were tiny and there were lots of little stones and shells scattered about. So I could just spread my blanket near the water’s edge and lie down right beside you as you went about your all-consuming project of throwing stones in the sea. And when I was rested enough we walked a little, hand-in-hand, along the tide’s edge, kicking and splashing. We made a few little sandcastles. And when your daddy arrived we were just one of several little groups of mummies and babies, having a cuddle by the sea on a warm, clear idyllic May afternoon. I couldn’t have asked for anything more from life in that moment.