Seaweed

Thursday was beautiful. Low 70s, sunny, nice breeze. I had a meal planned for dinner, but a picnic on the beach just sounded so much better. By "picnic" I mean we picked up something at Arby's and took a blanket to sit on. We had such a great time. But I believe Owen had the most fun. He stayed busy building shelters for the seaweed. By "shelters" I mean holes that he could throw seaweed into and then cover them up with more sand. My first inclination was to tell him to put down the gross slimy seaweed, but then I stopped myself. Even though I wouldn't want to touch it, why should I prevent him from enjoying it? Sometimes I feel like I'm programmed to say "no," without even really thinking about why I am saying it. Who cares if he gets seaweed slime on his shirt...that's what a washing machine is for. And after seeing his smiling face, how could I suggest otherwise?