Heidi and I were walking on the beach the other day (oh, how lovely it is to toss that into conversation so casually as if a walk on the beach was nothing special!) when we passed a little family enjoying the beach, too. The mom was in a chair a ways up from the incoming tide, and the dad dug in the sand with the younger of their two children; he and the toddler were busy building a castle with a moat.
Their older child, a girl of about three with wild blond hair, was some yards up the beach, chasing plovers and pipers and splashing in the gentle surf. We were walking in her direction, and she was far enough away from her parents that I was intrigued. I saw her mother wave to her, but not with outward concern, as the child ran farther and farther away, a wee picture of joy and abandon, a tiny person all alone on the beach.
I wondered how far they would let her go. She was never in danger, but she was at least 200 yards from her parents and moving away with every step. Even so, her joy was evident: I could feel it from where I was. "Get a load of feral Carol," I said to Heidi, and then we were both mesmerized by the wild child ahead of us.
Soon enough, we caught up to her, and I waved as she caught my eye. Her mom was not far behind us; she had risen from her chair the moment her child was out of earshot, but her pace was unhurried because clearly? That kid was fine.
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