Last week, as the weather got unseasonably warm, I dragged the boys outside late in the afternoon for some fresh air (and peace and quiet for Noriko). I suggested that we go up north long the coast to a big, non-swimming beach we've been to in the past. But on the way up the coast, Peter complained that the beach was too far. So I pulled off the highway at a dirt road well before our destination, knowing we'd find some kind of beach to explore.
It turned out to be a lovely place (you can see pictures at my flickr page) and we had a great time. After passing through a natural tunnel in the cliff face, we found ourselves on a very big sandy beach with a few rock outcroppings hosting some nice little tidal pools. Normally, I'd have packed snacks, water and a change of clothes, but I was just too fixated on simply getting out of the house to think about preparations and with the cold weather we'd been having, I figured I wouldn't have to worry about the boys getting wet. Actually, "figured" probably suggests a more conscious approach than I really had.
Of course, I should have known better, for not long after arriving, both boys began flirting with the water's edge. I warned them that the water was cold and that I didn't have a change of clothes for them. But I might as well have been lecturing the cliffs. Happily, it took a while, but, by the end, they both had wet pants (Sammy's even more so).
As we headed back to the path to our car, Sammy demanded that I change him into dry clothes, to which I replied, as all parents always have, "I warned you not to get wet because I don't have anything for you to change into."
Sammy pondered this for a few seconds then said, "But I got wet because I was out of control out there. You were supposed to stop me!"
"Oh! I get it," I muttered scornfully. "It's my fault you got wet!"
"Yeah!" said Sammy, warming up to this idea. "It's your fault!"
Unable to take the inanity anymore, Peter adopted the elder brother role and shouted down from the moral (and topographical) high ground, "It's your fault, Sammy. You have to take responsibility for your own actions. You also have to think about how others around you might feel!"
"Well learned" I marveled to myself. Now if he could only apply that to himself as well.
Sammy objected, with tears, so I intervened Solomonically.
First to the stem the tears: "In point of fact, Sammy's right that I'm legally responsible for his safety because he is incompetent. So, in a certain sense, it is my fault that his pants are wet." (Certainly, Noriko would look at me askance if I tried to pass the blame off entirely onto the 4 year-old.)
Next, to affirm the natural family hierarchy: 'But Peter's moral stance is superior" I admonished Sam.
Naturally, my balanced approach was as satisfying as cutting a baby in half. The two boys carried on the argument for another half hour, at least.
Lesson learned: always bring dry clothes.
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