Day 99

I took Constance to the indoor pool or park district’s waterpark a minimum of six days out of seven. Constance’s father always came with us to the beach because, oddly, he wasn’t afraid of swimming in Lake Michigan. For me, open bodies of water are a fear factor. You know a piece of kelp touching you won't kill you, but it feels gross enough to.

Sitting on the sandy beach is divine for a chit-chat like me. We went to the beach with the Woo, Cummings, Siegel, and Kapusta families to name the four most recent trips.

Constance loved the beach. It wasn’t as fun for her as the pool because it required breaks and sunblock but she had a blast swimming. With prompting, she’d begrudgingly play in the sand on safety breaks with the lackadaisical attitude common among children humoring a parent. She was a water baby.

Would going to the pool or the beach again would make me feel happy, because of all our beautiful memories there, or sad, because Constance is never going to experience it again? It would likely be both, with hysterical, snot-bubble tears mixed in for good measure.

If we had to seriously contemplate the fleeting nature of life every time we take our child to the beach, we would smother them with hugs and worry. Conversely, if we considered it more often than is comfortable, there would likely be more parents making time to visit the beach with their kids.

Constance and I were lucky to be able to spend all of our time together, so I don’t have that regret. I am a legit, unapologetic baby hog. My attitude was if you want to hold the baby get your own. I once scolded a stranger, “Hey swine flu, stop breathing on my kid.” Instead, I have brain-tumor-related regrets.