I’m sitting on a bright red couch, looking out a bay window at the ocean waves crashing. A. and I rented a townhouse that sleeps nine for the week in Surf City, N.C., not far from Camp Lejeune, where A. has work. It’s a sleepy town, with one decent coffee shop a mile up the road, called Hunga Bunga Java, that’s only open till 1 p.m. Many of the other restaurants and shops are “Closed for the season.”
A. has to work long days and some evenings — and Saturday. So it’s really just me and C. kicking it. We’re going on long morning walks along the paved road to Hunga Bunga for chai. I’ve caught up on some phone calls, read Homer and Langley by E.L. Doctorow and have given C. special attention. We’re in synch this week and I’m reading his cues — which means very little crying and lots of cute smiles. (And last night he slept more than 7 hours straight, yeehaw!)
I’m singing C. more songs, including “American Pie.” He throws his arms straight out and bicycle kicks his legs with excitement when I sing (he clearly can’t tell that I’m tone deaf). He’s getting closer to rolling over — lifting up his left hip and swinging to his side. And lately, he’s studying his hands before pushing them into his saliva-filled mouth.
C. got his first view of the ocean earlier this week when I carried him down to the water’s cool edge and we looked out at the vast expanse. But he kind of looked at it with dopey eyes — he has no idea what he’s seeing. Some day soon, we’ll come back in the summer — when the sand is hot and you can taste the salt on your lips — and we’ll make sand castles and I’ll hold him while we jump the waves. A. jokes I should bury C. in the sand up to his neck — “I want to see sand in his butt crack!” But of course, we wouldn’t do that to our chunky, beautiful 3-month old. We’ll wait till he’s three years old, and then we’ll do it.