motherhood

It was supposed to be one of those easy summer days — warm, bright, spontaneous — so naturally, with zero preparation and absolutely no plan, I decided Jack and I were going to the beach. Westport. A quick road trip. A vibe.

Thankfully I keep sunscreen in the car, because that was the only responsible decision I made.

No towels.

No bathing suits.

No change of clothes.

Just us, vibes, and a questionable amount of confidence.

We got to the beach and Jack launches himself toward the water like he’s been training for this moment his entire life. I call out the classic parent’s last words:

“Don’t get wet!”

What does a Viking do at the ocean? He dove right in, straight into the waves, no hesitation.

I just stood there thinking, Yep. This tracks.

Because I already knew what was coming: the soggy, sandy, car‑ruining aftermath. And since I didn’t bring bungee cords, strapping him to the roof wasn’t an option. He was getting in my car exactly as he was — dripping, gritty, and thrilled with himself.

So we drove into downtown Westport in search of clothes. It’s a beach town — surely someone sells dry fabric.

I rushed into the first shop I saw, grabbed a shirt and the only pair of sweatpants available. They were a size M. I asked the woman behind the counter if they had a size L because my son is enormous now.

She laughed. “You’re buying those for your son?”

I was already annoyed with myself, so her laugh hit harder than it should have. “Um… yes,” I said, paid, and left.

Jack changed. We walked the strip. He got ice cream, I got coffee, and somehow the day softened into something really sweet.

When we got home, I finally looked closely at the sweatpants I’d bought in my panic.

Printed down the leg, in bold white letters:

AHOY F⚓ckers

Of course. Of course that’s what I dressed my child in to stroll around a quaint little beach town.

Suddenly the woman’s laughter made perfect sense.