Sand Wars

I SEE the OH putting on his shoes. We are expecting the son and his family to arrive for lunch at any minute.

“Are you going out?” I ask.

He explains that he is going to move the sandpit from the patio to the lawn and fill it up with the two big heavy bags of play sand he bought yesterday.

"Why?" I wonder. 
I say: “If it stays there all summer it will leave a big bare patch on your lawn.“

(He has spent a long time scarifying the moss with a machine he found in my late uncle’s shed when we were clearing his bungalow prior to its sale. The moss may be scared out of its wits but the baby’s tears shows no signs of surrender.)

“If they fall out they will hurt themselves,” he says, referring to the toddler and crawler. “Or scrape their knees on the patio.”

“And. “ he adds with the air of someone who is always right, “we've always had the sandpit on the grass.”

I bite my tongue. In the days when our own offspring were building sandcastles of their own, their sandpit was on the patio. He was mostly at work. Not much involved with toddler play.

Since we have had grandchildren, their sandpit has always been at the bottom of the garden on the decking - only we can't have it there any more as the decking is rotten and he hasn’t started his garden project yet.

He obviously senses that I disagree with him although I say not a word.

“It was on the lawn last year,” he insists.

“Yes,” I concede. “When we bought the new tortoise one because the lid of the boat one had broken and the sand was disgusting and full of creepy crawlies we put it on the lawn. But we only put a little bit of sand in so it was easy to move around.”

“Why do you always have to have an argument?” he says, slamming the kitchen door as he exits.

Later I look out of the window and see the sandpit. On the lawn.

Just don't ask me to help move it, I think.