We imagine for Dubsie a life of sand in the toes and cleats in the snowboarding boots, of a nose that is sunburned despite the application of high-SPF sunscreen, of turkey chili nachos gobbled down at the ski lodge in order to make the backside by 3 p.m., of topographical maps and heavy-duty shoelaces and waxing a surfboard better than any girl in fifth grade.
One part of her education was to have happened last month, when I carried her onto the pleasant white-sand beach of a Caribbean island for a class entitled Sand 101, Its Uses as Construction Material.
Dubsie was serene when carried on high, but as I bent to establish first contact, her face took on an expression of extreme distaste. She tucked herself into a ball, her feet retracted as if I were lowering her into a pot of boiling fish heads.
“It’s great, Dubsie!” I’d say encouragingly. “You’re going to love it!” Mummy would urge.
But sand was soft and messy and stuck to the princess’ feet. It was nothing like the firm, flat floor of her playroom. After a few failed attempts, I just plunked her down in the deep stuff, saying to myself she’s a kid, she’ll figure it out. She stood rooted to the spot, a damsel stranded on her desert isle, fussing until someone came to her rescue.
After many tries, she deigned to stand on the strand, where the wet sand was hard and flat as the asphalt playground she knows from home. By the end of our visit, if you nudged her to the edge of the beach blanket, she would delicately visit with it, picking up a few grains and pouring them onto her thigh.
Soon after we returned, Washington D.C. had its first snowstorm of the season. I quickly bundled Dubsie up and sallied out the front door for Snow 101, Its Uses as a Projectile.
An inch of snow stood on our lawn, and again I endeavored to lower her into something pale and soft. But her boots drew up near her chin, as if Daddy was dropping her onto a bed of rusty nails, and she turned to look me a look as if to say I thought we’d gone over this. Finally I got her to stand on the walkway, where the snow had mostly melted. Her eyes darted around white desolation of our front yard and she cried, “Hands!”
Exclaiming the names of body parts is one of Dubsie’s favorite means of communication. (“Arms!” she says when wants you to cuddle her in bed. When you wrap one arm around her, she barks, “More arms!”)
OK, Dubsie, I told her, I get it, your hands are cold. Why don’t I tuck them into my gloves and we’ll go for a little walk around the block, experiencing the snowflakes drifting down, gathering on your sweet little lashes…
“Eyes!” Dubsie cried.
So we retreated back indoors, where Dubsie surveyed the few chunks of snow that had managed to accompany us back from the howling wasteland, and had a good cry.
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