Nature's toliet, people.

Even though he’s not around, there are subtle reminders of my ex-husband everywhere.

My heather gray NAVY shirt, left over from our days in the military, is wadded up in the corner of one drawer. The family photographs, still in their frames, are stacked neatly in another. His permanently flattened pillow (due possibly to the weight of his giant pig head) still sits on my bed, the least subtle of reminders, resting his head on top of it.

In honor of Mother’s Day, last Thursday, Brae had to share something of mine with his Pre-K class. We settled on a picture of me at his age and he took it to school, sharing it with his classmates, before bringing it back home. Later that day, my mom picked it up from the bar and held it beside his face, studying the differences between us, and declared, “take away the long hair and he’s you.”

There is a point to this story.

Brae’s ENTIRE life, people have held him up as a miniature version of his father. Everyone comments on their likeness, and while I see it (sure, there’s no denying the resemblance, he is his father after all), I fight back an involuntary cringe every time I hear, “Oh! He looks so much like X!” If things had worked out differently, of course I wouldn’t feel the same, but as it is- I hate the comparison.

So even a slight recognition that Brae is starting to favor me (albeit, a biased physical recognition from my mom), was enough to put a smile on my face.

But there is no denying the common traits between the two of them. There are things that Brae will say, or a certain face he’ll make (usually one of disgust), that will stop me in my tracks, because- Yes, that is absolutely his father there. And then he’ll turn around and express his love for Wizard of Oz, or curl his tiny fingers over a piano key, and once again- he’s his mother’s son.

At the beach this past weekend, there was no denying whose influence reigned supreme.

I love the beach. The sand, the sun, the sound of the waves breaking on the shore- all cool with me. I’ll even go so far as to admit the smell of the beach (on less fishy days) is something I enjoy.
I do not like the ocean.

I know, it’s kind of a weird thing, right? You go to the beach and expect to be near the ocean. And I like sitting by the ocean. I like hearing the ocean. I can even tolerate the freezing temperature of May’s Atlantic lapping at my toes. But I don’t swim in it. Ever.

And here is where Brae may as well be wearing a dirty mechanic’s shirt and clutching a pack of Bud Light. Because I do not readily encourage his love of ocean water. That came from….someone else.

He spent almost the entire weekend in the water.







My mother pulled him around on a boogie board for two days. He was knocked off of it more times than I can count, but every time, he stood up, shook off the excess water, and hopped back on. I grinned from the shore and saluted him with one sandy hand.



The rest of my family, relatives who had all stayed in Melbourne Beach with us, tried to persuade me to come in. But I had better things to do.



Like build the most bad ass sandcastle this side of the Atlantic. I even convinced Brae to join in on the salt-waterless fun.



Sadly, no camera was powerful enough to capture the full glory of my sandcastle.



(I'm a little embarrassed by how wimpy it looks here.)

Our whole weekend was a series of dripping wet and drying off, with one glorious nap in between. And on the last day there, a few hours before checking out, Brae raced to my side and pulled me with him towards the water.

"Just your toes, Mama?"

So I waded in, all the way up to my ankles...
and then my thighs....
and held his hand as he jumped over the crashing waves.

I was gritting my teeth as each turd brown wave lapped at my stomach. Unidentifiable floating objects brushed against my leg and Brae laughed hysterically at my side, as I flung seaweed out further into the ocean.

But he was laughing. And right then, having a parent that would share in his love of the sea (and all it's dirty fish pooping inhabitants) was all that mattered*.



And that was good enough for me.









* Except for sand boobs, those matter too.

I hear Mac's are less temperamental.

I promised myself I wasn’t going to do this.

This post was supposed to be happy! A joy to read! A positive pick-you-up-and-slap-you-on-the-ass account of my past weekend at the beach. I had pictures to share, stories to tell, and today I give you NONE of it. All because my alarm clock did not go off this morning.

And without it, I woke up too late to beat the computer into uploading my pictures.

I would write off this morning as a fluke, and try again later tonight, were it not that I’m now entirely convinced that my computer is out to wreck my life. That she’s begun recruiting other appliances to join her rank of rogue electronics who are all hell bent on making my life as miserable as possible. And I have evidence to prove it.

In the past few months the following appliances have turned on me:

1) The dishwasher, who technically quit working around Christmastime, but has been steadfast in its commitment to refusing any treatment. We’ve yet to purchase a new one.
2) The a/c in my nine-year-old car, who decided last month, that blowing COLD air was now optional.
3) My blow-dryer, who coughed and sputtered its way through it’s last performance a week ago.
4) And now my alarm clock, who apparently does not believe I deserve a shower or time to apply mascara before rushing off to work.

And I’m positive that the force behind all this treachery is the bulky, black, dust-ridden, agent of evil that sits atop my parent’s desk. It’s drafted a few other neglected electronics.

And now it’s my turn.

(Okay, seriously? I'm going to try to upload those photos again later tonight. But I'm not kidding about my shitty electronic and appliances luck latley.)

Please don't feed the dinosaurs.

This morning Brae bolted upright in bed and declared that he had a nightmare involving our cousin Ean, a school bus and a very large alligator who was trying to devour them both. I snuggled him close and tried to soothe him back into those last 15 minutes of pre-alarm clock sleep, but was no match for the threat of the restless gator waiting just behind closed eyes. He was AWAKE! and reluctantly I got up as well, climbing into the shower while he sat outside the curtain and waited safely for me.

Sixty seconds till coffee, I cursed his nightmare and the sleep-hating alligator who lurked there. I was quick to stick the pointed finger of blame on Indiana Jones and his dangerous follies, (surely one of those movie's featured a man-eating alligator) but then it hit me.

His nightmare had less to do with Harrison Ford and everything to blame on this past weekends activities.

My cousin Ean turned four recently and to celebrate we went to Dinosaur World.

Living in the land of amusement and perpetual tourism, it was quite a shocker to find a park that we hadn't been to before. But it was Dinosaur World! And for those of you who live close by and read this blog, I'm sure you're smiling. Who could forgot the giant neon-orange Tyrannosaurs Rex who lives beside I-4 year round? Who welcomes weary motorists back to town after their Disney travels with that meager smile that seems to say, "Dude, if you had just come here, you'd be home already!"

In my entire 24 years of life in Florida, I had never visited Dinosaur World.

I came to find out that Dinosaur World is actually, you know, pretty fun.

If you have kids. Of course there's not much you can do with it childless (unless dinosaurs are your thing, Ross Geller.)

Here's the scoop. Dinosaur World is basically a very shaded park with sidewalks that run throughout it. There are picnic tables and a few shelters you can even reserve. There's a kick ass playground and the obligatory obnoxious couple who wander around the park hand and hand. Soda machines and restrooms line the walk and you can almost loose yourself and forget that you're only 20 feet from a large frequently traveled interstate. Birds sing overhead and kamikaze squirrels dart under your sneakered feet while you stroll down the gravel path and OH MY GOD IT'S A FUCKING DINOSAUR, RUN!



Just kidding. The dinosaurs are all caged and well feed. They didn't bother a soul.

Brae had a great time pointing out the dinosaurs and laughing as I struggled to read their ridiculous names off the plates in front of them. He was hanging with two of his best buddies, Ean and Ryan, and the three of them ran loops around the adults who where desperately trying to contain them, scouring the park for the treacherous T-Rex. The birthday party package included a fossil dig where the children each sifted sand in an attempt to locate prehistoric bones and teeth. This was a big hit with the kids as it combined their love of getting filthy with the pride of discovering something they did not believe was planted there 30 minutes earlier by a half-baked park employee.



There was even more sand in The Boneyard, an enclosed sandbox that contained the remains of a triceratops just waiting to be discovered. The kids had some of the best of times in here as I cringed with every ounce of sand flung into the air. If the ball pits at McDonald's are bad, I can't bear the thought of what treasures were hiding just beneath the surface of that lovely dune.



While making our second round through the park we ran into my ex-husband, which was quite the surprise. His reaction to seeing us was a little less than pleasant, but I should really just be grateful he's found some work again.



I mean, it's not like employers are just knocking down his door with a face like that. Sharp teeth. Wow.

A few minutes later I ran into some of his friends. Two years later and they're still making my stomach turn, wouldn't you know.



We wandered through the park for hours, pausing to eat lunch and feed the koi fish, sing Happy Birthday and open presents. I took an insane amount of pictures that forced a half-plastic smile on my son's face and a shoulder that suddenly became glued to his ear.





The birthday party was a big hit and I definitely recommend that if you live in the area and have kids (or Ross Geller) you go check it out.

You never know, you may even have a chance to spot the elusive Nonapacrankipuss.