Two sets of footprints in the sand

The waves dash to the shore, devouring the sand, twigs, and seashells. 

You tighten your grip on me,

nervous about the sea 

as it roars, coughs, 

and spews angry foam.

You refuse to walk on your own, 

so I carry you.  

I tell you a lame joke, 

that when the going gets tough, it is I who will carry you, 

only one set of footprints in the sand.

But who am I kidding.

"Papa?"

You ask. 

You utter two syllable words now, 

 your three teeth gleaming in the sun, 

your breath like fresh bread.

"Papa's working. We'll see him later at dinner, okay?"

Yes, that's right.

I'm sharing you with Papa.