Happy Memorial Day!
Saturday, we loaded up the side-by-side and made our way to the beach with friends. But not before the two-hour pre-departure circus of gathering alllll the essentials, dressing multiple humans, locating rogue boots, and finally—finally—getting everyone into the vehicle.
First stop: the market for a quick prescription pickup. Forty-five minutes later (so much for quick), we were off to get gas for the rides. Cue the bathroom chorus. Everyone suddenly had to pee, so we all paraded into the gas station. Naturally, we couldn’t leave without a meltdown or a mountain of snacks. Once more, we loaded up and hit the road.
When we got to the beach, four of us crammed into a three-seater like a pack of marshmallows, bouncing our way down the shoreline to meet our friends. It was high tide, so we had to climb over some serious rock monsters to get there.
We found our crew riding four-wheelers—and that’s when Tait lost it. He realized he had to ride a four-wheeler too, and let’s just say...he wasn't going to give in. After much negotiation and a little vehicular Tetris, we figured out a riding situation that worked. At least the weather was gorgeous, so that was something.
We rode as far as we could go, then stopped to rest and stretch. Sounds idyllic, right?
Yeah, no.
Tait was absolutely wired—like, 6-Red-Bulls-in-wired. He couldn’t leave the vehicles alone. Cory and I tried every trick in the parenting book: sand play, rock climbing, joining the other kids… nope. He was locked in and wouldn’t budge.
Meanwhile, Lucy was in peak whine mode. She followed me everywhere, crying and fussing. We’ve been working hard on helping her use words or signs, and she just got a talker (iPad) like Tait’s, but of course—we didn’t bring it. I tried to ease her into playing with the other kids, but every attempt ended in tears. Eventually, I sat on the ground with her in my lap and sang to her for a full hour. Then, without warning, she jumped up, yanked her pants down, and took a giant poop right there on the beach. In front of everyone.
After that? Totally fine. Because of course.
By now, we had spent about three hours trying to get the kids to relax and enjoy the ocean breeze, the sun, the view—any of it. And just as they finally started to settle, it was time to pack up.
I managed to snap one breathtaking photo before we squished back into the side-by-side and rode to town, our souls slightly frayed and our stomachs empty. We found a pizza place (because that’s all Tait eats), and hallelujah, it had indoor seating. I could see the exhaustion written all over Cory’s face across the table. Still, we rallied and made one last stop at the tide pools.
Miraculously, that part of the day? Pure magic. The kids finally leaned into the nature thing. Tait only tried to bolt down the beach twice (life with an eloper), and Lucy laughed and played in the water with the other kids like nothing ever happened.
The moral of the story?
Life in our world runs on its own timeline—no matter how much I try to manage, schedule, or force it into order. We show up late, we forget stuff, we rarely sit still on a gorgeous beach, and bedtime takes two hours on a good night.
But this is the life we’ve been given. And honestly? It’s messy, it’s loud, it’s exhausting—but it’s ours.
As a recovering Type A personality, letting go of control is still a work in progress. If it weren’t for my mini breathwork breaks, I’d probably lose my mind 300 times a day. (Okay, maybe 297.) I still lose my cool. It’s not easy. But somewhere in the chaos, there are beautiful moments—unexpected, unfiltered, and completely worth it. And I’m learning to be more grateful for every single one.
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