(As in: everything makes you want to, and your kids do nothing but)

Category Archives: hyper kids

Forget blood, sweat and tears. My weekend was all poop, sweat and tears. I’m starting to think that’s a far worse combo.

My son seems to have mastered pee pee on the potty. There’s the occasional partial tinkle in the undies, followed by completion on the pot.

For the most part, there are no puddles accumulating in our house.

Poop is another story altogether.

I’m starting to think he’s terrified to poop on the toilet, so he’s holding it in for as long as he can and then it sneaks out in increments. That’s the only possible explanation for the impressive number of times he pooped in his undies over the weekend.

At some point, we’re going to have to break down and start washing the undies. We’ve been tossing them in the trash. It’s so terribly difficult to want to hand-scrub shit off someone’s underwear. Anyone’s underwear. But, for such a small amount of material, those little Superhero skivvies are EXPENSIVE.

huck potty

There was a pee pee incident when we went to a restaurant for lunch with the kiddos. (where the food was double-fried disgusting)

My husband took Huck to the restroom, he peed and within ten minutes of coming back to the table, he peed in his pants. I guess he wanted to leave as badly as we did.

My husband tells me he also stomped on the pee that puddled on the floor of the bathroom, so his socks were soaked in urine.

We didn’t bring any boy socks, so he ended up wearing hot pink socks with chicks on them under his cowboy boots. (An aside: He loved the socks.)

The kids played outside on a playground that couldn’t possibly be up to code. There were plywood steps, rotting from water exposure. The kids periodically ran back to the deck where we were because they were terrified of the bees. (Which were actually flies.)

flies

We took the kids to play putt putt golf.

In Florida.

In August.

We are not a couple overcoming the challenges of parenting with mental disabilities. We’re just stupid.

huck golf

Not only is it difficult to teach toddlers how to properly use a golf club and avoid water hazards, it’s nearly impossible to keep them from falling off faux cliffs when there is sweat literally dripping into your eyes.

alma golf

Afterward I asked Alma if she had fun. She said, “No, it was too hot.”

Awesome.

To cap off the weekend, there was a 4:30 a.m. Monday morning wake up call. My daughter was bleating like a sheep because she couldn’t find her Rainbow Dash pony.

It was right next to her in the bed.

alma awake

I fell back asleep and had a nightmare that I couldn’t pull off a Frozen birthday party for her.

elsa evil

I can’t wait to trade in all the poop, sweat and tears for some sleep, peace and quiet.


me and mckenzie

As I held my new niece for the very first time, I marveled at her perfect little face and how fragile and tiny she was. I was impressed by her full head of hair and the tiny lips already poised to smile in her sleep.

Then, I was relieved that she wasn’t mine.

Maybe it’s because the entire drive to Orlando, my children kept throwing their respective Spiderman and Hello Kitty balls on the floor of the car and whining that I needed to pick them back up.

alma ball

The big mark in the middle of her head is a bruise she got when a kid hit her with a swing. She is not a Klingon.

Maybe it’s because my daughter wouldn’t stop yelling and waking her little brother up once he finally fell asleep.

Maybe it’s because my son threw a temper tantrum in the hospital room and started kicking me, then his Nana and then anyone in his general vicinity.

Or, maybe it was watching my daughter cower in front of her own family, melting into nothing because she was uncomfortable about the presence of a baby. She chose to peer out the window as if there was nothing more fascinating than the rooftop of the building next door.

alma window

Maybe it’s the dozen times this past weekend that I had to peel soggy undies over my son’s little legs. (along with a couple chunky poops) To say he’s regressed is an understatement. We’re starting from scratch.

huck potty training

It’s chocolate. Not poop.

Maybe it’s the previous day when we made the mistake AGAIN of going to the beach. We chose a closer one, but that didn’t stop my daughter from complaining about the duration of the trip.

Once we set up our mobile beach home, it wasn’t the sound of waves crashing on the shore or seagulls that filled the air.

It was, “There’s wind in my eye!” “There’s sunscreen in my eye!” “There’s sand on my hands!” “I want my shoes on!” “I want to go in the water!” “I want to go on the sand!” “I want more oranges!” (“We’re out of oranges, honey.” “I want more oranges!!!!”) “Put me deeper in the water!” “Take me closer to the shore!” “My belly hurts!”

All I could think is THANK GOD I have a week off coming up for my birthday. My plan was to have several days of “me time” with stress free trips to the beach, naps and reading for more than ten minutes without passing out from exhaustion. Then, we were going to do our first weekend without the kids since they were born. Stay at a hotel with a pool, drink too much, sleep too much and remember how much we actually enjoy each other’s company.

We drop off the kidlets at my in-laws after the beach so we can grab a couple of adult beverages and drink off the feeling that having kids at all was a giant mistake.

The first thing my mother-in-law says is that they’re heading to Vegas to celebrate their anniversary… the weekend of my birthday when we were going to get away. I die a little inside.

While having drinks, I tell my husband that life will get easier once Huck gets potty trained and that all I need is several days in a row where I can really work with him.

Big mistake. Now, it looks like instead of a staycation, I will be cleaning up piss and shit for a week. Can I just work instead?

So, yeah… that new baby smell does NOTHING for me. I’ll just use baby powder.

The cute itsy bitsy clothes? I’ll buy Alma a doll.

The thrilling feeling of bringing another human being into the world? Been there, done that, twice.

Maybe I would feel differently if one of my kids had been a dud. Maybe we hit the jackpot of batshit crazy and annoying. Maybe we’re not strict enough. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so difficult if I didn’t have to wrap up a shitty weekend and head back to a wretched job.

I love my children, but they are the little sticks of dynamite that have blasted my biological clock.

dynamite

All that’s left are gears and cogs, tears and daydreams.

mckenzie and matt

Congratulations to my big brother and his wife… and good luck with that.


Picture a koala bear whining perpetually. koala Or a turtle neck sweater that cries for no reason. turtle neck Or the Incredible Hulk keeping a mom in a headlock while EXCLUSIVELY wearing skirts. the hulk This is my daughter. She is going through a phase (Dear God, let it be a phase) where she is beyond clingy.

She is single-handedly bringing back the choker necklace of the 90’s by BECOMING a choker.

alma clingy

I’m afraid I haven’t snapped any photos of her attacking me. Look how deceptively sweet she is!

She repeatedly gets down from the bench during dinner to give me a hug, despite being told repeatedly to withhold affection until after we eat.

She lies on top of me, kicking me over and over and over and then when I finally break down and yell at her she says, “I just want to give you a hug!” (Or kick the shit out of me)

She wants me to carry her, she wants to cook with me, she wants me to color WITH her. Inevitably when we color together, she gets bored and starts scribbling spastically all over whatever masterpiece I’ve created.

Sometimes I feel like instead of giving birth to a child, I actually have a parasitic twin attached to my body.

conjoined twin

Rather than a disturbing visual representation of an underdeveloped conjoined twin (don’t google it) I am showing you Andy Garcia. He had an underdeveloped conjoined twin surgically removed from his shoulder.

I am being manhandled by a blonde troll 24/7. kids Sometimes I feel badly about how irritating I find her demands for constant attention and contact.

The other night I told her it was time to bed after we finished reading and she started to fake cry. I told her to read a book on her own and she went ape crap.

I got annoyed and told her to pull it together.

Then she said, “I can’t read a book on my own, BECAUSE I CAN’T READ THE WORDS!”

Now I’M the dick. It has to be incredibly frustrating to be just a few letter sounds away from being able to read by yourself.

That being said, I am starting to think it’s strange that my children have ZERO ability to entertain themselves. (even together)

As I have previously posted, I suck at pretend.

I harbor a secret desire to burn her dollhouse down.

I can only find so many ways to rearrange the six pieces of furniture.

My mouse family mostly just wants to chill on the couch and watch TV. mouse family Speaking of, my children won’t even watch television alone. They demand to have company to zone out.

I have on more than one occasion plunked my daughter down on the couch, put on a new movie and tried to sneak in a nap in the bedroom. (Door open. I am not a HORRIBLE parent.)

Within ten minutes I will hear the heavy breathing of a small being standing next to me, staring at me, waiting for me to open my eyes.

It’s like I have my own personal serial killer, who is determined to murder me with crappy kid movies.

She won’t even sing without me. If I stop singing Frozen songs because I am doing something totally unimportant like trying to help her little brother poop on the potty, she starts to whisper-sing, looking uncomfortable like she just forgot her lines in the school play.

I probably shouldn’t talk considering that my mother could’ve nicknamed me “the tumor” until I was in high school. But, seriously, was I this annoying?

I’ve started calling her an Australian Sheperd. “The Aussie has considerable energy and drive, and usually needs a job to do.”

That’s my kid.

If you don’t give her a task, she’ll throw a shit-fit and possibly even piss on the rug. (Maybe not, but her temper tantrums ARE escalating.) aussie She is a lovely child. Brilliant, hilarious, spirited and driven.

Now, can someone please borrow her for a couple of hours so I can have a hot date with my husband?


My job might suck sometimes, but it will never be as bad as being a daycare worker.

1. I occasionally have to clean up someone else’s shit. (something they’ve done wrong)

You ALWAYS have to clean up someone else’s shit. diapers 2. When my kid ends up with a boo boo, my initial response is “What did you do?”

When kids end up hurt at daycare, parents come to you and demand to know, “What did you do?”

HUCK BLACK EYE

Huck’s shiner. I made the mistake of telling his pediatrician the next day that he had been “hit by a car.” (neglected to insert the word TOY before car)

3. I sometimes look forward to work as a break from the kids.

You come to work and find EVEN MORE KIDS.

4. If my kid is throwing a massive hissy fit during drop-off, I can walk out that door and head to work.

You are the one left with the hissy fit. huck crying 5. I can take my bored kids to the beach, mall park, shopping or museum.

You have to come up with creative, safe things for a BUNCH of kids to do. creative 6. I am emotionally invested in my children so I find things that they do to be quirky, cunning and clever.

You find them creepy, manipulative and irritating.

7. We can threaten our kids with “pow pow” even if we never spank them.

You have to rely on firm, clean language for discipline. spanking 8. I can celebrate my child’s milestones.

You get one kid potty trained and there’s another little shitter waiting in the wings.

9. I frequently deal with stupid adults.

You deal with stupid adults AND stupid kids.

10. I work in a business where it’s difficult to get promoted.

Your promotion would have to involve NOT working at a daycare anymore. daycare funny In summary: I can’t say enough for the people who work their asses off wiping my children’s asses, teaching them, keeping them entertained and ALIVE for several hours five days of the week all year long. Bless your hearts. (but please stop charging so much)


If you can’t be stupid with your kids, you’re stupid.

Studies (that I made up in my head) show that singing, dancing and general tomfoolery with your kids makes them happy.

I used to be insecure about singing in front of my husband. I know I can sing. I did show choir in middle school, dabbled in musical theater and can kill it at karaoke.

But, I know I can’t hit the high notes and occasionally I murder a melody.

While my husband was recently out of town on business, I rediscovered the sheer joy of not giving a shit what anyone thinks about my voice.

So did my kids.

We scream-sing Itsy Bitsy Spider during double bath time. We butcher the lyrics to Let it Go from Frozen and break the sound barrier with Olaf’s In Summer.

OLAF

We used to do “dance party” in the evening, playing various styles of music from Pandora. While that doesn’t keep the kids attention for very long and typically degenerates into sibling violence, it’s inspired both kids to shake it like a Polaroid picture.

OUTKAST

My son has great rhythm like all Cuban men, so I’m told.

My daughter is spastic, but maybe she’s just into interpretive dance.

The other night, I randomly started spitting a hip hop beat and watched in delight as my daughter started to get down and she was ON BEAT. She might stink at ballet, but she’s going to blow minds with her contemporary.

My husband ridicules my “peacock” move and my “stank face” but it’s worth it to hear my kids laugh.

BEYONCE STANK FACE

Even if my children don’t end up on American Idol or So You Think You Can Dance, (shows that will no doubt be long since forgotten by then) they will smile more, laugh more and feel more free.

I’m beginning to find that humor and the ability to laugh at yourself is a key component to parenting.

Call us weird, call us kooky but don’t ever call us joyless.

kooky family


All Corsa vacations are preceded by a moderate disaster.

One time we had to rush our French Bulldog to the emergency vet for a costly, time-consuming overnight visit that resulted in a diagnosis of “bad gas.”

frankie

Another night before leaving on a trip, my husband’s car stopped working.

Stomach bugs, pink eye, even a massive “bomb” dropping onto the hood of my car from the monkey puzzle tree in front of our old bungalow. It never fails.

the bombthe dent

This time, I take the dogs to get their vaccines so they will be up to date for a week at “camp” and the vet notices my Boston Terrier has a hematoma on his ear that will need to be drained.

poor sick del

Tack on 300 more bucks to what was already a hefty bill and my last day before vacation will be spent rushing him to and from the vet. (not to mention he will be wearing the cone of shame while being humped by strange dogs. Double shame.)

That night I also get ridiculously sick. So sick I call in to work at 3am. Yet, my boss text messages me at 6 in the morning and basically begs me to come in anyway.

I do.

I am miserable.

I haven’t washed my hair.

I can’t speak.

I end up leaving early to go to an after-hours clinic for a Z-pack.

While in recovery, I somehow develop a massive swollen gum in the space where my 4th wisdom tooth would’ve been… if I had one there. (but, I don’t) Now, I am kicking off my vacation with wicked jaw pain.

We’re on Cuban time, so my husband and I race around packing and dressing the kids (no small feat) (they have small feet) but then have to sit around wasting time for hours until the rest of the clan is ready to go.

Even then, we must depart in a group.

We’re going in separate cars, but it’s the soldier’s creed. No man left behind.

Anna Maria Island is beautiful and quaint, the vacation house ideal.

beach house

There’s a lagoon-like pool with a sometimes operable waterfall and a minimal amount of beach sand collected on the bottom.

waterfall alma

We are two blocks from the beach.

This should be a great vacation, except for my aching jaw, endless stream of snot and the sensation I have plummeted instantaneously into the 1950’s.

I end up trapped in a bedroom with two insane children hopped up on VACATION, jumping around the bed we’re all expected to share while my husband is downstairs watching the World Cup.

kids in bed

Maybe it was the fear that this was going to become the anticipated routine.

Maybe it was the burgeoning revelation that the entire trip was secretly orchestrated to coincide with the World Cup in order to torture me.

Maybe it was all I could do to keep myself from racing through the home with a burning bra, but I stormed downstairs and demanded the keys to the car to go for a drive.

BRA BURNING

The next morning after being pummeled all night long by bony elbows and knees, awoken by the sound of my son grinding his teeth in his sleep and the pain in my whole face… I’m still ready to tackle my pre-women’s suffrage duties and help cook breakfast for the house of 12. (My family, my in-laws, my sister-in-law and her boyfriend, her two kids, his two kids and one teenage friend of her son)

I remember that they cook their scrambled eggs with oil while I opt for butter or butter spray so they’ll probably find mine bland and inedible. I decide to go for the bacon and start to get the pan when my mother-in-law says, “You need to put it in the microwave first.”

bacon

I mentally throw my hands up and avoid cooking bacon for the rest of the trip.

The next day at the beach, Mother Nature valiantly came to my rescue.

I am obsessed with sharks. Terrified of them, adore them, secretly hope and dread for encounters with them.

The very first time I am watching my mother-in-law wade in the water with my daughter on her hip, I spot something unusual a couple of yards behind them. It looked like something pointy and dark sticking up out of the water.

Then there were two.

Then three.

They were moving.

I walked toward abuela Corsa and made a hand motion for her to come toward me.

I could see clearly now there were at least two, possibly three sharks in the water.

I didn’t want to be “that guy” that shouts “SHARK!” and terrifies everyone at the beach. But, then again my mother-in-law is embracing my precious cargo and this scenario is like an unimaginable nightmare.

I remain calm even as my mother-in-law continues to demand to know why I am telling her to come to shore.

Other people see them too, so I have confirmation. These were not dolphins. I know what dolphins are. In fact, we saw some of those later in the day. Completely different swimming behavior.

The same day, we also watched a manatee lumbering along in the shallows.

Late afternoon, the summer storms roll in and I am watching them from our balcony. Billowing, fast-moving, dark clouds. Swirling, hinting at circulation. Palm trees whipping around like witches on broomsticks.

storms

NO FILTER

God bless you Mother Nature, you have shaken me from my stress-induced stupor.

The days that followed were filled with moments of joy, stress, hilarity and a healthy dose of awkward.

Perfect example of the latter: One of the said extraneous children along for the trip is about 9 years old.

He’s soft-spoken to the point of being irritating and even more bizarre than I was as a child.

He’s also a bit sneaky.

He and his sister appear to have some kind of arrangement that allows them to cheat and win at card games, hide each others’ crimes and possibly bury bodies in the backyard unnoticed.

At one point, my mother-in-law shouted that she saved me a piece of cheesecake.

Within a matter of seconds, I watched the boy grab the last piece and stick it inside an orange Dixie Cup so nobody would know he did it.

The night before I watched him go for some cheesecake in the freezer and when he saw me watching him, he rushed to open the freezer and put it back but his chicken-like arms were too weak to open the door.

He squeaked out a strange animalistic cry of frustration, like someone squeezed a rabbit REALLY hard.

screaming bunny

To add insult to injury, a short while after he purloined MY piece of cheesecake, he shit it back out in the bathroom ATTACHED to our bedroom.

He is a Junior, so they call him “Tito.”

He shall henceforth be known as Cheesecake Tito to me.

Here’s another good one: In the afternoon, my husband was on the beach mercilessly teasing my sister-in-law and mother-in-law because they have decided they believe mermaids exist. Their scientific proof was viewed on a television show.

mermaids

That night we’re playing Apples to Apples with the whole family with the exception of my sister-in-law’s boyfriend. He’s apparently holding some kind of grudge because he lost a game years ago to me over the definition of “The Big Bang Theory.”

apples to apples

So, while we’re playing we hear the sound of harmonious singing pouring from the open door to his room. It was like the bewitching melodies belted out by sirens, the ones who lure sailors to their deaths. The mermaids!

So, my husband says “He’s in there, unfurling his mermaid tail.”

I don’t know why, but this made me laugh so hard I almost peed my pants.

I am a chortler. Maybe the occasional guffaw slips out. I NEVER laugh that hard.

I was crying, I was speaking in tongues, I was HAVING FUN.

Then there was the moment we were waiting for the trolley near a church and the truly Cuban members of the family decided to pose for a picture.

immigrants

We ended up in Downtown Anna Maria Island, which for the record, does not exist. We were meandering down neighborhood streets looking like lost Okies drenched in sweat.

But, there were magical moments.

I watched my daughter discover the joy of being slammed by waves, overcoming her perpetual fear of the ocean.

kids beach

I saw my son kick around a soccer ball with the big boys until sweat was dripping off his little melon head.

huck soccer ball

I saw sharks, I laughed until I cried and I drank more beer than seems humanly possible.

Yes, I was impaled nightly by little kid limbs. I spent much time trapped in bed watching PBS kid shows on the lousy cable while everyone else screamed about the World Cup downstairs.

little kid limbs

I got a sun rash and gained five pounds. (my weird tooth issue resolved itself after days of gargling salt water)

But, it’s still the best vacation we’ve had with the kids since they were born. Good enough that my poor son is still grieving.

huck depressed

Huck is pouting under that blanket.

I am too.

 


Day 2:

We sat outside in the blistering heat so the kids could water paint.

huck alma painting

We tormented a poor skink that was hanging out on the patio by chasing it back and forth to try and get a good look at it.

skink

My children transformed into sloths during dinnertime.

sloths

They waded their way through the food on their plates like it was tar or quicksand.

sloth dinner

Before bedtime, my son started to whip my arm with a pink rubber lizard and when I snatched it from him, the arm ripped off. The arm is now stuck on his wall.

At bedtime the kids took turns shouting “mommy” for no apparent reason for about an hour.

I took a day off from work the next day, so Huck decided it would be AWESOME to still wake up at 6 a.m.

He also burst into real tears when I left him at day care.

It didn’t take long to get over the guilt and have the MOST AMAZING DAY EVER.

beach day

I planted flowers, hit my favorite used book store, went to the beach, got a Coke Slurpee, got food from my favorite Mexican restaurant and watched Scandal.

I can safely say that if I hadn’t taken that day in-between I would’ve suffered a nervous breakdown by now.

Day 3:

The kids were total champs about dinner. They ate all of their ravioli and in a timely fashion. They even drank… drum roll… WATER!

I figured it was going to be an amazing night, but then bath time rolled around.

Alma is sitting on her brother in the tub, ridiculing his private parts, splashing me and then crying because she wants me to wrap her like a baby in her towel.

Then she actually starts whipping me with the towel. Not full-on locker room whipping, but she did nail me good one time in the eye. She responded with a sarcastic “SOOOORRRY.”

alma wild

Alma transforming into a she-devil.

God bless my little hero, Huxley. He shouted, “No, Alma! Don’t be mean to mommy!!”

No such luck kiddo.

She was a nightmare to put to sleep. She wanted to color with markers and when she discovered the paper wrapper had fallen off of one of them she accused me (with attitude) of doing it on purpose.

She said condescendingly, “When the paper falls off, then you don’t give me THAT marker.”

I said, “I’m not doing anything for anyone who talks to me that way. Get this straight little girl, I’m your mom and you can’t talk to me like that.”

Lotta good that did. Little snot stayed up until 9:20 p.m. no matter what I did.

She’d rather color in the dark like some kind of f*&king vampire than go to sleep.

I still need to take a little time to unwind after the screaming and crying dies down, so I end up staying up way too late.

Then Huck wakes up at 5 a.m.

ALMA picked out her outfit the night before, but suddenly in the morning acts astonished that I would choose such hideous attire and forces me to dress her in the EXACT same outfit she wore two days before, including the sweater she demands to wear “because she’s cold” when it’s 90 degrees outside. I washed it, but still… nobody else knows that.

Huck is crying “No way mommy!” over and over because I won’t take him downstairs while I get Alma ready. (Which is because the day before, I took him downstairs and he cried because he was alone down there while I got Alma ready)

He cried, “I want daddy.”

Guess what? I want daddy too.

And when daddy comes home I am going to put a shock collar on him and if he ever tries to go out of town I’m gonna zap his ass.

SPECIAL NOTE: I want to give a special shout out to Olaf, Elsa, Anna, Kristoff, Sven (or “Spen” as my daughter pronounces it) and even Prince Hans. Without them this week would not be possible. For all of you Frozen haters, this movie is the only way I have been able to do laundry, tidy the house or even bathe. I love you, Frozen.

frozen


Day 1:

Dinnertime was infinitely more wild. There was some playful pummeling between kids, very little eating and some drooling and growling.

dinner time1

dinner time3

dinner time2

One massive melee during a tug-of-war over a stuffed Pluto that ended in crying double time-outs.

Bedtime was a cluster packed with book reading, coloring, singing and general chaos.

Sleep was interrupted at 2:30 a.m. by Huck screaming because he fell out of the bed.

2:35 a.m. screaming for water.

2:45 a.m. screaming “I’m done!” (with the water)

2:50 a.m. screaming because Pluto was stuck in the blanket.

3:00 a.m. screaming because he doesn’t want Mickey Mouse.

3:05 a.m. screaming because he wants Mickey Mouse.

Woke Huxley up from deep slumber at 6 a.m. by singing, “Do you wanna build a snowman?” from Frozen. He woke up smiling instead of crying, so this was a huge success.

Counted school buses on the way to day care. (Alma said, “They’re not going to our school. They’re going to HIGH school.”)

morning people

They are NOT morning people.

Children arrived on time, while I was late to work. We are all still alive.


I’ve been begging my husband for weeks now to go back to the beach. His hesitation is solely based on the temperature of the water. He was worried it would be too cold.

I finally convinced him the water was ready for us, so we chose to go… on Memorial Day weekend.

beach

We’ve done a fair amount of stupid stuff, but this nears the top.

In second place might be choosing to start driving toward the beach at around 11 a.m.

It started out perfect. Both kids fell soundly asleep in the back seat. They stayed asleep while I ran into Publix to get subs and snacks.

Then, we arrive at the beach to find every single parking spot taken.

We drive around waiting for something to open up and miss every single opportunity.

We spot meatheads roaming around looking lost, so we follow them only to discover they’re drunk and have located the car which they need to remove a single item from so they can get back to looking beefy on the beach.

I asked one leathery old lady if they were leaving and she snapped, “After we shower! It’s going to be awhile!”

Countless people were loading up 30 bags of sandy crap into their trunks for so long we would move on to scout out another spot only to watch another driver snag their spot.

The kids are awake and I’m trying to appease them with Lunchables. Ignoring the wads of cheese they’re collecting under their fingernails, the cracker crumbs accumulating in all crevices. (the car seats and theirs)

We were literally driving around parking lots for an hour and a half. We were about to give up, but every parent knows you cannot renege on a trip to the beach when it comes to little kids.

So, we tough it out.

My blood pressure is rising.

I am wishing I could trade the Gatorade in for a bottle of Vodka.

We find a spot and it’s like the heavens have opened up and the light of God is shining down on us.

Oh, wait… it’s just the glare of the scorching sun made more intense by bouncing off the
hot-as-coals sand.

My son’s experience with sand is limited, so he immediately starts whining that we need to pick him up because it’s “dirty.”

My daughter is shuffling down the boardwalk so slowly in her flip-flops, exacerbated beachgoers are grunting in irritation and pushing past.

Like pack mules, we haul our load of beach junk and one solid little dude with sandophobia to a spot where we can set up shop.

Alma is thrilled and immediately starts playing with sand. Huxley is puzzled as to why everyone thinks it’s okay to coat yourself in inedible sugar that’s really just glorified dirt.

Needless to say, I’m already sweating… mostly the perspiration of STRESS.

So, we head to the water. The second Alma’s teeny feet hit the wet sand, she starts shrieking that she doesn’t want to go in the water.

I pick her up and carry her crying into the ocean. It takes a solid 15 minutes before she realizes I am not going to dump her head first under a wave and watch her flounder for fun. (nothing like watching hot, young, childless folk give you dirty looks because you’re forcing your kid into the ocean)

My son had a blast in the water. He would LOVE it if we dumped him head first under a wave for shits and giggles. In fact, even if you don’t, he’s going to spend the next hour TRYING.

We’re in and out of the water for about an hour before the notorious and punctual Florida storm clouds start to roll in. My experience with this is so vast, I can predict the amount of time before the rain reaches the beach.

I say we have about 15 more minutes before we need to head back to the car when the first bolt of lightning strikes.

Alma starts whining and grinding her teeth and I know we have to hightail it.

I am rushing ashore to start the Sisyphean task of loading up our beach gear, while the throngs of scantily clad teenagers continue to shimmy to Rihanna and drink their secret booze.

The crispy, burnt old folks with their rotund bellies popping out over their swim trunks are posted up in lawn chairs like suntanning slugs.

No one is moving but us. We have a child that is about to lose her shit, so we are practically RUNNING.

Even once you get everything and everyone to the parking lot, you’re faced with a logistical nightmare: How do you get your sandy, wet children from their skin-tight soaked swimsuits into the car without ruining the car?

Reluctant to peel off their suits and reveal their nudity to the inevitable perverts lurking around, I end up telling my daughter to stand inside the car behind the driver’s side door so I can attempt to peel off her suit, which is basically enmeshed with her body. Clumps of wet sand fall to the floor of the car and I squeeze her still dripping body into clean clothes.

One kid down.

My husband was in charge of Huck. I am pretty sure some lucky sicko got a glance at his junk, cause getting a kid out of a swimsuit AND a swim diaper is pretty much impossible to do discreetly.

You’d think the kids would be exhausted from our travails, but instead they decide to let out ear-piercing screams in unison for half the ride home. We ended up rolling down the windows to try and drown it out or shut them up.

My husband turns to me and says, “The only reason why we will ever go to the beach again is for the kids, because this was horrible.”

I turn and ask Alma if she had fun. She says she made a star with sand on the beach and that was kind of fun.

So, let’s just buy a bucket of sand and STAY HOME!

(NOTE: Absolutely no pictures were taken of this lovely day for obvious reasons)