As a parent, I’ve learned that I have to make changes to accommodate my kid.
For example…
Since babies apparently require loads and loads of stuff and suck up space like a hoarder, we were forced to move into a bigger house.
Since Owen likes to play with anything that is NOT one of his toys, we no longer have any items in our house sitting out below three feet. The remote control no longer resides on its rightful place, the coffee table.
And although I never wanted to have a home overtaken by toys, I’ve accepted that our family room is now officially a playroom.
So, considering all of these lifestyle changes made for Owen, I was both excited and apprehensive about summer days at the beach with our little guy.
Let me explain.
Beach time is sacred time for me. It’s the one place where I truly relax. I can read a book in the sun for hours and hours. I pack up a sand chair, towel, and a good book, and I’m all set for a long and peaceful day by the ocean at the Jersey shore. Simple bliss.
Within 30 seconds of walking onto the sand with Owen, I knew my peaceful afternoons on the beach were over.
Correction: I knew it before we even left for the beach.
I knew it as I packed up all the beach paraphernalia…sand buckets, sunscreen, extra lightweight blankets, a little blow-up pool, diapers, baby food, and so much more.
Holy cow. The big red wagon we bought to schlep Owen and his crap to the beach might need a trailer.
By the time we packed and hauled all of our goods onto the beach and set them up, I was dripping in sweat. Another thing I’ve learned as a mother: Parenthood involves a lot of sweating.
But before I could sit down and cool off in my just-set-up sand chair, I realized Owen was quickly crawling away, while shoving broken shells into his mouth.
Well, that’s one less thing that I need to haul to the beach. No need for a chair. This mama will not be sitting in a sand chair for years.
[Nor will I be wearing a strapless swimsuit anytime soon. Owen does a lot of tugging.]
Owen enthusiastically roamed through the sand, tasting it whenever he was too fast for me. He climbed over sand chairs and threw around his sand toys.
Ugh, sand. I do not like sand. I might even hate it. It’s so messy.
Tired of all the crawling around in the sand (me, not Owen, that is), we ventured to the surf. A little confused by the waves and the ice cold water, Owen looked downright befuddled at first.
But it wasn’t long before he was squealing like that Geico pig and we were holding him back to keep him from taking off straight into the ocean.
Playing in the ocean with Little O is so much better than playing in sand! I don’t have to constantly stop Owen from chowing down on seashells and pebbles, plus it’s a lot cooler in the water.
But then I realize at some point I have to pick up my soaking wet kid.
And there’s one thing worse than sand: wet sand.
Gross. Now it’s all over me. Good thing Owen looks so adorable in his little wetsuit or I might have left my sandy sodden son on the ground.
All the wave-jumping has worn Owen out, which almost makes up for the wet sand that somehow got inside my swimsuit while I was carrying him. Almost. Not quite.
Owen passes out in my lap. Ahhhh. I finally get to sit on the beach! Sweet. There is a god after all.
Except I can’t really get comfortable with a half-wet, half-sweaty drooling baby on me and sand all over my chest. And my limbs are immobilized, so taking this time to read a book is not an option. But I’ll take what I can get. I awkwardly sit and listen to the calming sound of the ocean and nearby shrieking children, grateful that for once it’s not my child making noise.
No, having an almost one-year-old on the beach isn’t all bad. I admit that, although it’s not relaxing, it’s fun. And did I mention that Owen looks super cute in his swimsuit?
