Day at the Beach with Mitchell: The Toddler Titan

We all know that guy—every friend group has one. Our Mitchell was different, though. He was not just the usual oversized toddler; he was a walking anomaly. Imagine a three-year-old trapped in the body of a linebacker. Yep, that’s our Mitchell. So, when the suggestion to spend a day at the beach came up, everyone knew it was going to be, well, an adventure.

The sky was still a purple hue when we rolled into the beach parking lot. Mitchell, in his too-small baby seat, was already fussing. His size made simple things complicated, like extracting him from the car seat. As the self-appointed leader of this merry band of misfits, I had the honor. I unbuckled him, hoisted his hefty body out, and hoped to the beach gods that the day would go as smoothly as possible.

As soon as his feet hit the sand, Mitchell's excitement was palpable. His chubby fingers grabbed at the sand, and his eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. But with great cuteness came great challenges. The sun had barely risen, and I already dreaded the forthcoming diaper change.

The first few hours were blissful chaos. We built sandcastles, which more accurately looked like sand forts, given his penchant for destruction. He laughed, running after seagulls, his enormous feet making deep imprints in the sand. The day seemed too good to be true, and of course, it was.

It wasn’t long before the telltale signs of a looming catastrophe became evident. Mitchell’s face scrunched up, and before we could react, the smell hit us like a freight train. “Time for a pamper change,” I announced, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I felt.

The beach bathroom was a logistical nightmare. There was no changing station large enough for Mitchell, so we had to improvise. We settled for a bench outside. I laid out the changing mat and mentally prepared for the task ahead. With the precision of a bomb technician, I unfastened his diaper, armed with wipes and a new pamper.

“Hold still, buddy,” I muttered as Mitchell squirmed. Of course, he didn't. Instead, he flailed, and a glob of you-know-what splattered onto my shorts. Lovely. Beach caretaking was clearly not my calling.

After a change that felt like defusing a bomb, we were back to the fun stuff. Lunch was another Herculean task. Mitchell’s appetite was as enormous as his frame. Sandwiches vanished like magic tricks, but seeing his satisfaction was worth the effort.

As the sun began its descent, we faced the ultimate challenge: bath time. The beach showers were our only option. Carrying Mitchell, now with a layer of sand stuck to his sunscreen-slathered body, I felt every drip of sweat. The shower fight was on. He hated it. I, on the other hand, was committed to cleaning him without emerging from the encounter resembling Ariel post-Octopocalypse.

When the water hit his head, he wriggled like a marlin, and I resorted to the universally dreaded swirly. It was not my proudest moment, but desperate times call for desperate measures. As the water finally rinsed away the day’s adventures, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity.

The sun set, painting the sky in tangerine and lavender hues. We trudged back to the car, both exhausted and content. As he drifted off in his car seat, I reflected on the chaotic joy of the day. Mitchell, my oversized beachside charge, had given me a day to remember.

That night, the images of sandcastles, seagulls, and swirling waters swirled in my mind. Would I do it again? The grains of sand still stuck in my hair and the faint smell of baby wipes suggested not anytime soon. But who knows? With Mitchell, the unexpected was always expected.

And that’s the thing about days like these—they leave you wondering what kind of delightfully twisted adventure tomorrow might bring.