Sandy

 I am spending quality time inside the sandbox these days as Belle, deep into a development or growth spurt, won't play unless I play.  Gone are the days of Belle power crawling into the sand and smiling at me as I cheer her on from a blanket on the grass.  Belle will burst into tears if I even think about leaving her alone with all the scary, sandy children.  I must sit in the sandbox first, allowing Belle to sit in or stand on my lap until she feels confident enough to play independently.  I am indulging her because I find the sandbox particularly therapeutic   

I love the warm sand against my bare feet as I walk Belle inside.  I love observing the relationships that form, for better or for worse, in the sand.  Yesterday we met a Chinese family who moved here from China eight months ago.  Belle got along fabulously with their three year old son, who speaks no English.  The children spent several minutes hugging, their open arms locking freely around waists and necks.  The little boy practiced his every facial expression on Belle, raising and lowering his eyebrows at will.  Then both he and Belle poured fistfuls of sand onto my knees.  Another child tossed sand down the back of my tee shirt.  Someone else prompted me to open my hand to receive a gift of sand.  I adored every blissful moment.