Just Wait. It Will Change.

“Oh no! It’s raining!” Our car had just pulled in to park for lunch.  We were greatly anticipating a celebratory meal of fresh fried shrimp and cold beers at the little beach shack on the Gulf coast, the celebration being we just successfully completed three and a half hours of driving with a two year old and it was [gasp] not too bad (Oops. I just broke the no hitter rule.)

Our quick weekend down to the beach was supposed to begin with said shrimp and beer on the deck with sunshine overhead before we tore our shoes off to run our feet through the sand. The weather had other plans, as it always does.

Just wait. It will change.

That’s what my weather app told me. It’s cloudy and cold and rainy now but there were little sunshine faces in the future forecast.

We settled into the sheltered part of the deck with the plastic pulled down over the side blocking our view to the sea, a little bummed by the change in the anticipated plans. But the shrimp was still fresh. The beer still cold. And sure enough, by the time we loaded into the car to trek the rest of the way down the coast, the sun did begin to shine.

We waited. It changed.

This wouldn’t be his first time at the beach, the two year old, but it would be his first time as the running, screaming, fearless explorer that he is today.

A place where jumping in puddles is not only possible but required. A place where getting messy is allowed and expected. And a place where a toddler who loves the sound of his own voice can scream, and the noise is mostly drowned out by the roar of the sea.

“You’re going to love the beach, Elliott. Just wait.”

Sure enough, with curiosity as his guide he ran straight towards the water, toward the sound and the movement that called him. It didn’t take long before the first wave rolled in, and knocked him flat on his face in the sand.

Well that was unexpected, I could hear him thinking. And unwelcome too. Cold and scared he now clung to my arms unwilling to get down and explore.

“Oh no!” I said, for the second time today. “I thought you would love this!”

But it was kind of cold. And he did miss his nap. He was probably just sleepy. We would be back tomorrow morning with good weather, good rest, and a whole day waiting to explore this new playground they call a beach. I made those excuses in my head and prepared for a better tomorrow.

Just wait. It will change.

We waited. We rested. We packed up #allofthethings the next morning armed with sunscreen, shovels and snacks. Conditions were right on that first morning at the beach, just right for the kid who would love the beach.

I’m sure you see where this is going.

Once again with curioisty as his compass, he ran into the water, a big wave greeted him, and face down in the sand and salty water began the second experience with the beach.

The tears, the whining, the clinging. He did not love the beach.

But how can this be? I lamented as I ran through the checklist of sure fire ways to fix a toddler meltdown. Good night sleep. Check. Full stomach. Check. Freedom to explore. Check.

Always the checklists. Always the doubt. Always the dashed expectations.

I wonder why I continue to do that to myself? Setting up this vision of perfection for my children, for our family, for me. Surely I’ve learned by now that weather, and plans, particularly those that involve children, are just forecasted, predicted or estimated, but not guaranteed.

It’s funny because as in most parenting situations, my brain is moving like a bullet train through the classic emotions of motherhood but my body is paralyzed. I’m running through the checklists, wallowing in pity at how vacations with children are the ultimate oxymoron, scolding myself for having expectations in the first place, and then circling back to the lists again trying to figure out how to rescue this disaster of a morning. And, as a writer, I also begin crafting the essay about the disappointment of a beach vacation gone wrong, or how to not get your hopes up, or the top ten lessons I learned about my child when it turns out he hates the beach. Yet to the passer by, I’m sitting on a beach chair just staring at my toddler having a tantrum.  

Sometimes my body knows more than my mind. Because what I realized I needed to do more than anything was wait.

Just wait. It will change.

Just wait. He will figure this out. He will calm down from the shock of the ocean. He will find the shovel to sand groove that peaks his need for full sensory contact. He might crawl into your lap for a hug only a mom can give when he decides he needs a little bit more help.

For sure enough, as I sat there writing my thoughts in my head, before I could solve the problem for him, he changed. He learned to jump in the tiny puddles on the beach and run back quickly as the wave approached. He learned (but not necessarily followed) where he was allowed to throw sand to have the least amount of parental stare downs. He learned to squeal with joy at the now anticipated rush that comes from a big wave, as long as one is safe in the hands of a parent who will quickly sweep him up to safety. Dare I say, he began to love the beach?

I waited. He changed.

Of course he did. That’s what toddlers do best. And newborns. And threenagers. And young adults. And grown adults.

You wait. And things change.

Sometimes there are things we have to do to help that change. Sometimes we do need to run through a checklist or consult an expert.

But sometimes all we have to do is just wait. It will change.

She will sleep through the night. He will finally eat something green. She will wear underwear. He will solve that math problem.

You will figure this out.

There were more battles on that beach of toddler to wave, toddler to sister, toddler to parent, a constant stream of varying battles, as there always are on vacation, and in normal life.

But through it all, if I remembered, I tried to let this mantra speak a little louder than my wandering thoughts.

The weather and the child and the parent.

We will all learn to shine soon enough.

Just wait. It will change.