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Parenting

With a baby at the seaside

A truly wonderful experience was awaiting her. And it seems that she was feeling it somehow. In the excitement popping up from my voice as an impatient kid, in the stir all around taking us up as rapids, in my glowing with emotion eyes.

For a single moment I travelled back in time and recalled my mom’s stories of my early childhood. Those which with just a few comprehensive descriptions collected in three short phrases and colored with vehement gestures undermine for milliseconds my entire authority over friends. Those which provoke a tsunami of laughter, few tears with the shape of a smile and uncontrollably waving limbs in the brain’s desperate attempt to acquire oxygen.

I started imaging her leaving footprints on the seashore but with SNEAKERS, running and scattering sand all around but with SOCKS, taking a bath in the camping but with CLOTHES, sending her fairy baby voice with the breeze but with a CRY.

It appears that the fact we share common genes did not turn to be a dominating factor and my first trip to the sea with a baby happened to be rhythm and blues. She knocked my socks off with her instant curiosity and comfort in the sea water with the ease jazz music comforts your soul, flooded me with gospel rhythm by making new friends with other toddlers and completely jumped me out of my skin with blues rhythm by sleeping all night. And this all lasted for seven days. Life was white frappe and iced cider at the beach with Maria and Margoto, wild emotions, adorable childish laughter and inadequately used float, afternoon naps on the beach, butterfly in emerald waters and smiley nights. Being with a baby at the seaside turned out to be the new rhythm and blues.

 

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