Mr. Postman, here's another letter to an inanimate object

Dearest SandBox,

I know you think I don’t like you and how you’ve wrapped your gritty little claws around my son. Let’s be honest shall we? You’re absolutely correct. You’ve got a wonderfully keen eye. I don’t like you, most of the time.

I don’t like how you attract children within a one mile radius, especially when those children sneak in the back and you encourage them to make backhoe loader noises that snap my baby out of his sweet slumber. If I had known that human spawn have the innate ability to sense the presence of a sandbox I might not have encouraged bringing you into the family. I’m sure you already knew about this power of yours though. You are the epitome of misrepresentation.

I don’t like how you also attract the neighborhood cats. Felines are not to be trusted anywhere near you. You are too tempting, and kitties do bad things when you are around. If you didn’t have that cover of yours, let’s just say you would be sent away to a factory that makes sandpaper.

I don’t like how my son comes inside at the end of the day with sand in places sand should never be. Wasn’t there a clause about that in our contract? I should sue you for failure to remain out of my child’s nose, mouth, scalp, belly button, butt, eyeballs, ears, digestive tract, etc.

I don’t like how last summer, when I was large with child, I had to sit on your little itty bitty corner seat and shovel sand while my sciatic nerve screamed.

I don’t like how you make me long to go to a real beach, with real sand littered with seashells, driftwood, seaweed, and the occasional dead jellyfish. You are not a beach, and you never will be. You do not have a lovely coastal view, and you are littered with bulldozers, rocks, dirt clods, and the occasional bug. It is a sad truth that I live with everyday, as do you.

Also I don’t like how you’ve seen fit to rub my lack of a green thumb in my face. I get it. You don’t have a brain, or hands, or a tender loving heart such as myself, but you can still grow plants. I get it. Even a lifeless sandbox can sustain life. Message received.

But despite the many reasons I have to despise you with every fiber of my being, I don’t. There are fleeting moments when I’ve got my feet in the cool damp sand, and I remember my own childhood. And then I see my children making these same memories (except with trucks, not kitchenware and dolls). You can entertain them for hours in a way I will never be able. That’s why I say I dislike you, most of the time. So for now I’ll keep you around and just cope with sandy butts, and poop, through my tears.