It’s a loose granular substance made from the erosion of silica, or SiO2, if you want to get all science-y.

I associate sand with beaches, oceans, and a nuisance that won’t ever get out of your life, much like glitter. Seriously, get some in your car fabric and then it’ll be there as long as you own it. It’s impossible to get rid of. Anyhow.

Sand is a texture, kind of like a literary archetype, that is described over and over for other things. Sandpaper, for instance. And every kid has a love it or hate it relationship with this particular texture.

Our kid hates it. I don’t know if it’s just that she loves to clean and be clean or what, but anything to do with sand is a no-no. Until today.

The Lot is a great little (or really big) east Dallas eatery that is frequented during sunny days and dead during dreary days. Though they have $1 cups of soup on dreary days, just FYI.

But they had this huge sandpit that all the kids love to visit. To dig in. To throw at each other. To kick. To pile. To build into castles. The sandpit is the highlight for all children that frequent The Lot.

And our child had never been in it longer than 30 seconds until this afternoon. Emmy walked out timidly at first, her flowered sneakers and gray socks protecting her from the ancient granular material. As her shoe impacted the sand and she didn’t feel the graininess on her skin, she got a little more comfortable.

Then two little girls, several years her senior, sprinted past, unshod. Their bare feet like enjoyed the sand between their toes, as our child detests. But nonetheless, she strolled back to our picnic bench table and requested to try it. To be like the big girls.

That lasted about 15 seconds consisting of 2 steps back into the beach-staple. We grabbed a few baby wipes and cleaned her feet. The gray socks and flowered shoes were back on and she played her little heart out. Even made a friend. By stealing his plastic red truck and pointing at a bug for him to remove from her presence.

Hey, we call her a princess for a reason.

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