This morning a group of mothers in the neighborhood drove up to the park with all the sand. I usually go to the park with all the boulders from which to fling one’s small, breakable body because mine doesn’t yet know how to climb those boulders, and the sand, well, mine doesn’t yet know that the reason it tastes so bad is because IT IS SAND SO WHY DO YOU KEEP PUTTING IT IN YOUR MOUTH? Where are the zap collars for toddlers? Make me one and I will buy it from you.
A few of us inevitably got into a conversation about our boobs, the sagging and the pushing up thereof with new bra technology, and you get groped, too, while you’re unloading the dishwasher? Here, honey, put away this pot, oh right, you can’t, you’re too busy clutching my breasts. One woman said that while on vacation to Greece people said she could go topless on the beach, that it was acceptable over there, but she declined because if she went topless then her knees wouldn’t get any sun, this is what happens when you breastfeed your child until he is old enough to ask for french fries on the side.
Suddenly we realized that there was a man maybe five feet away playing in the sand with his son. A stay at home father? IN UTAH? Don’t say it! I promised I wouldn’t tell his Bishop so that he could continue taking the sacrament on Sundays. One of us remarked that he had probably heard this all before, and yes, he nodded. I imagine that he must be so annoyed when he’s unloading the dishwasher and his wife won’t stop grabbing his balls.