Number One Son has a routine in the mornings. It goes something like:
- Wake up before anyone else in the house, regardless of age, inclination, alarm, or level of sobriety when they went to bed.
- Make as much noise as possible.
Seriously, if you put him to be at 9pm, he’s up at 0530. If you tuck him in at midnight, you might get to 0630. So this morning, spending the weekend down the shore with SOBUMD’s brother and sister-in-law, the objective is to keep him quiet while his sisters and cousins, to say nothing of aunts and uncles, get some rest. The upshot of this is that my morning became a glorious montage of coffee, bug spray, and a paddleboat on nearly perfectly still water, at low tide, into the rising sun.
Yes, I brought the coffee and bugspray on the boat. We peddled and talked, he sang quietly, and we reviewed the tall grasses by the marsh that seperates this inlet from the open bay. 75 degrees, not too many bugs. This is living.
Even Number One Son thinks so. “Daddy, this is such a wonderful place to live, I’m surprised President Obama doesn’t have a house here! I bet if he did, he could afford to have a basement.” I had to explain that even the President doesn’t get a house with a basement on the beach.
And every time he sees a seagull swoop by, he yells “Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!” from Finding Nemo. Can’t say I blame him.