The Girl has been asking for a sandbox for weeks, though she hasn’t done so in as many words. Instead, she’s been playing in whatever dirt she can find, taking her beach toys out to the patch of driveway that is unpaved and playing in the dirt there as if it were sand. She has taken Baby out and made dirt angels; she has created vast mountain ranges only to demolish them with both feet; and she has sprinkled dirt all over her legs until she was a dusty mess.
This week, Papa and I decided it was time to make a proper sandbox, complete with a mesh cover to discourage local cats from turning it into an enormous litter box.
“Why don’t you just go buy one of those turtle sandboxes with the lid?” Nana asked, knowing perfectly well that it was out of the question: a man must build his daughter’s sandbox, not purchase it at some chain store.
No, a father and grandfather must pull out every power tool available — yes, even the router — to create a mishmash masterpiece.
But that’s only the smallest portion of the fun.