Almost Piña Coladas
Last night, Bad Cohen and I went to the beach.
We had sand between our toes, warm breezes, comfortable chairs, and nice cold drinks to sip. We even had an actual, adult conversation, about something other than schedules or tantrums or what-to-make-for-dinner.
It was almost perfect -
until somebody ran over my toes with a dump truck.
Is there any way to convince my son that the sandbox is really for grownups?