After the boiler apocalypse, three hours of sleep, a lukewarm pot-boiled bath, and Christian somehow managing to put his underwear in your suitcase, you finally arrived at the resort: the Dunes of Pilat in southwest of France.

The air was salty. The sun was hot. Your legs felt like soup.

Louis-Jules was perched in his baby carrier on Christian’s chest, chewing on the strap like a determined squirrel. His tiny sunhat was flopping over one eye, but he didn’t care. He was too busy grunting at the seagulls.

Christian, on the other hand, looked like some exhausted beach Ken doll; shirt open, sunglasses crooked, pushing the suitcase with one hand and holding a baby bottle in the other like it was his iced coffee.

“Okay.” You said, scanning your room key. “Room 204. No stairs. Ocean view. And- Christian?”

“Yeah?”

“...Why is Louis-Jules trying to eat your sunglasses?”

He looked down. “Oh. I told him they were ‘vacation carrots.’ He believed me.”

You opened the hotel room door and instantly got hit with the freezing AC. Louis-Jules blinked. Froze. Made a suspicious grunt.

Then, full baby waste.

His little hands shot up like he’d seen heaven.

The room was carpeted.

He squirmed and wiggled until Christian had to drop the bags just to let him loose. Louis-Jules flopped right down, rolled once, and then face-planted directly into the fluffy white hotel duvet like he was declaring war on it.

“He’s either claiming the bed or thinking it’s a giant marshmallow...” Christian whispered. “Place your bets.”

But nothing, and I mean NOTHING, compared to his reaction to the sand.

Later that afternoon, you finally hit the beach. The sun was glowing. The waves were calm. You had your hat, my sunglasses, and the perfect mom-swimsuit that hid just enough of your sleep-deprived body. Christian was carrying the world’s tiniest beach umbrella and the world’s most unamused baby.

Louis-Jules squinted at the ocean like it owed him money.

Christian laid down a blanket. Christian plopped Louis-Jules gently in the sand besides you two, careful to pat it first like he was introducing a new babysitter.

For a second, nothing happened.

Then-

Massive full-body flinch.

Louis-Jules yanked his foot up like the sand had insulted him personally.

He sat there, staring at the grains stuck to his toes, blinking dramatically like he was in a soap opera.

Then, slowly, he smacked the sand.

Once. Twice.

And then started crying like the sand had betrayed his ancestors.

Christian picked him back up immediately, laughing and trying to explain. “No no no, baby, it’s not dirt. It’s beach dirt.”

Louis-Jules did not care. His arms are windmilled. His hat fell off. He cried at a crab.

You took him from Christian, gently wiped his feet with a wet cloth, and said. “Okay. We stick to poolside today.”

And just as you turned back to the hotel, Christian asked. “...Do you think the minibar has juice boxes?”