(But mostly her family.)
“I’m glad you like the content,” she says, smiling with just her mouth. Natalie calls a three-minute warning to the kids and begins to shake out the beach towels. Rebecca has parked herself on the corner of Natalie’s beach blanket. Natalie doesn’t want to shakethe woman off like she’s a bunch of sand, but she’ll do it if she has to.
“I could never homeschool.”
“It’s not for everyone,” says Natalie pleasantly.
“It’s definitely not for me. I’m in finance; I’d never have the time. Plus, I don’t think I could do what teachers have been trained to do. I like using my brain for my own work, you know? No offense.”
“None taken.” Natalie’s voice is tight.
“Your husband, though, in that article—”
“Zero-minute warning!” calls Natalie. She can’t lose her temper because even if this woman may not be a fan per se, she is a follower. She’s waiting for Natalie to lose it so she can record it or tell someone or both. “Naptime for the little guy,” she tells Rebecca.
Rebecca rises and wipes the sand off the backs of her legs, and Natalie reclaims her blanket.
“Thanks again for following,” Natalie says, as sweet as the cherry pie she’s finally perfected, right down to the braided edges of the homemade crust. “It wasso greatto see you.” She’s known that some people love her and some people hate her—that’s the internet for you. She’s known her life is full of contradictions—that’s womanhood for you. But until this week, it’s never felt so heavily weighted in the wrong direction.
As she’s folding the blanket, she sees something change in Caspian, some alteration of his mood. It’s subtle, and almost atmospheric, the way the air feels different the second before the first raindrop falls. But it’s enough. She says, “Caspian!” but it’s too late. He’s got his shovel raised above the sandcastle, and, just as Rebecca grabs her little girl’s hand and whisks her away, the shovel comes down and the sandcastle dissolves.
Scarlett stands still, utterly dumbfounded, but Evangeline raises her face to the sky and unleashes the most bloodcurdling scream;she’s protesting a grand injustice, maybe even screaming at God Himself. The grievances of the very young! They are every bit as legitimate to their owners as the grievances of the very old, Natalie knows this. But they are also sometimes very, very inconvenient.
Deep breath. In, out. Natalie snaps into action. She throws the rest of their things in the beach bag, scoops up Caspian (he has the gall to be smiling handsomely), and ushers the screaming Evangeline and the shell-shocked Scarlett across the sand and toward the house.
Away from the wet sandcastle sand, the dry sand is unforgivingly hot. Scarlett jumps from foot to foot, screeching at Natalie as though she can change the temperature. She steers them up the steps to the patio (also hot) and around to the outdoor shower, where she plops her bag on the bench and turns on the water. Too late she realizes she left the shovels and pails behind. She’ll have to go back for them later.
“I’m sorry Caspian did that,” she says, watching Evangeline’s sobs subside. Evangeline wipes at her eyes, definitely rubbing sand into them. “He’s little. He doesn’t know any better.”
“He does know any better!” says Scarlett. Natalie suspects that she’s right. “He needs to apologize.”
“Caspian, can you tell your sisters you’re sorry?” There are two schools of thought on the efficacy of forcing children to apologize, and some days Natalie is not sure to which one she belongs. Whichever is easier, maybe, although she wouldn’t tell anyone that. She is supposed to be someone with standards. She’s supposed to have a plan!
“Orry,” he says, grinning. She puts him down and he tries to escape the shower. She slides the lock, keeping them all safe inside, and takes her forty thousandth deep breath of the day.
“Rinse the sand,” she commands the girls. “Caspian needs his nap.”
“Do we have to wash our hair?” the girls ask in unison.
Scarlett and Evangeline have copious amounts of hair. It’s fairy-princess hair, thick and heavy, with natural curl at the end. It’s gorgeous, but it requires such maintenance. Natalie’s second-biggest fear about her children (the first being something actually bad happening to them) is that lice will invade Hillside Haven.
Natalie is so, so tired suddenly. She’s weak, she’s hungry, she’s thirsty. She’s the poster girl for depleted. She won’t make it to naptime.
She sets her shoulders back. She must make it to naptime. She will make it to naptime. And beyond. And beyond!
“No hair,” she says. “Quick rinse, and we’ll move along.”
“I don’t want to take a shower,” says Scarlett.
“Well, you have to.”
Scarlett says, “But—” and Natalie feels herself start to lose it.
“Quick rinse!” she says, and then repeats, yelling now, “I said QUICK RINSE!”
“You’re yelling, Mommy,” says Evangeline.
“I’m not yelling!” cries Natalie. “I am trying. To do. Gentle. Parenting.”
