A Confession

There is a sociological phenomenon known as schadenfreude which is most often described as deriving pleasure in others' misfortunes. I like to believe that most of the people I know experience it, at least once, even if it is only watching the guy who just passed you on the highway at a million miles per hour get a ticket. I suppose it is in poor taste to experience schadenfreude with people one knows...so of course, I won't admit to it.
I know it is in poor taste to experience schadenfreude when it comes to one's children...so of course, I will own up to it.
Since we have been in Southern California, I have taken the kids to the beach nearly every day. The beach here is something nearly unrecognizable compared to their beach experience in the Gulf of Mexico. The sand here is coarse and dark colored, and occasionally slick with natural oil seepage. The ocean is cooler, more opaque, and certainly more rough. The roar of the surf is loud, even when the waves are relatively small--3 to 4 feet.
I put those kids on their body boards and stand in the wash of the surf, patiently waiting to send them on their way with a firm push toward shore. I wait for the big ones, as they claim to want to ride the big ones, and I let go as the crest of the wave breaks around them. Sometimes, they ride the wash all the way up to the shore, whereupon it recedes from under them, stranding them on the beach. I feel proud of them for those accomplishments: they hung with it; they rode it all the way. Sometimes, the wave takes them only a few yards, requiring them to kick and walk back to me. Sometimes, less often, the waves overwhelm them, tossing them headlong into the water, flinging the body board up into the air, bathing the kids in kelp and sand and bubbles.
They come up snuffling the water out of their noses, brushing their hair away from their eyes, squinting against the salty water, finally opening their eyes to find me. Laughing my ass off.