#30 of 92: My Witch Hat is in the Attic

I don’t know where my Groucho Marx glasses are either.

It’s okay because I’ve been pretending to be a parent and you don’t need a costume for that, just a pair of jeans and a good hoodie.

Well, that’s actually not true. I don’t pretend to be a parent. I pretend to be a grandparent who thinks she’ll live to be a hundred.

Today at Doctor’s Park, I walked fast down the endless stairs to the beach. Kiddo, Cupcake, Cookie, Sweetie, Honey, Paulina still beat me to the bottom. As did the dog. We did a quick walk up and down the beach and, in that time, I and the dog saw a dead muskrat laying on its back with a huge stick across its chest and a dead sea gull as big as a small turkey. Seriously, it looked like you could roast it and feed five people.

Paulina, five and fascinated by the beach in all ways, collected armfuls of rocks. So many they spilled over, dribbling behind her as she charged from one fascinating rock to the next. That’s when I stepped in with my grandmotherly self to remind her that the real purpose of hoodies was pockets. She studied me for a long minute, my hands in my own hoodie pockets, and then she untied her hoodie from around her waist and put it on, stowing her dozens of rocks in the pockets for the trudge back up the stairs.

At home Paulina shook out her hoodie pocket full of rocks on the living room floor, sand and all. Then she found two purple ribbons, laid them on the floor, and lined up each rock according to size and look. And because it’s so pretty, I’m loathe to ask her to pick them all up. Maybe tomorrow.

I love a kid who loves rocks. It’s a grandmother thing.