The Gate, the Guessing Game, and the Water:
Learning to Follow Jimmy’s Lead
Yesterday’s beach day wasn’t planned.
It wasn’t packed, prepped, or even expected.
It was insisted upon—without a single word.
It was around 5:30 PM. I was sitting on the porch, thinking the day was winding down, when Jimmy stood directly in front of me, waving his arms, clearly trying to communicate something important.
And I had no clue what it was.
“McDonald’s?” I asked.
He grabbed my hand and pulled.
I barely had time to grab my shoes and keys—still in my sundress, no bag, no drinks, no backup plan—before he was down the stairs, out the gate, and climbing into the car.
This wasn’t a suggestion.
This was a mission.
The Car, the Drive, the Resistance
We hit the drive-thru. Fries in hand.
Crisis averted?
Not quite.
Back at home, I opened his door, reached to undo his seatbelt—and he fought me. Hard.
He pushed me away. Clung to the seatbelt like it was the last safe thing in the world.
He was still in just a diaper (because again, 30°C and a “quick” fry run). I signed “water” to him, hoping that was the message he’d been trying to send, and his whole body relaxed. Bingo.
I ran inside, grabbed a pair of shorts, came back out—and off we went again.
Next stop: splash pad.
We pulled in. Parked. Opened the door.
Nope.
Same resistance.
Seatbelt grip of steel.
I was sweaty. Overheated. Mentally worn. Still in my runners and sundress, sitting in the heat next to a child who clearly had a plan I wasn’t privy to.
So I exhaled. And asked, “Jimmy… what do you want?”
Of course, he didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway.
The Beach That Nobody Wants—Except Us
Out of options and operating on pure hope, I turned toward the beach. Not the popular one. Not the scenic one.
The one people avoid.
It’s rocky. Shallow. Kind of awkward. But it’s also usually empty—and that’s exactly why I chose it.
When we pulled in, Jimmy’s entire posture changed.
He was ready.
I, on the other hand, was wildly unprepared.
Still in my dress.
Still in runners.
No snacks. No water. No towel.
Just… vibes.
We parked, and I did the world’s fastest diaper-to-shorts quick-change in the front seat. Adult diapers and lake water don’t mix.
Then we were off—like a herd of turtles.
Jimmy doesn’t like dry grass. He carefully inspected each step, eventually choosing to bum-scoot down a small hill rather than walk.
Good choice, honestly.
We got to the stairs down to the sand. He sat again. Played in the sand that had built up on them. Took his time. Investigated.
And then—slowly—we made our way toward the water.
The Struggle with Independence (Mine, Not His)
The beach was almost empty. A couple of kids. A parent or two.
Enough that I felt visible, but not overcrowded.
Jimmy jumped right in—splashing, exploring, playing with pure joy.
I hovered. Close enough to reach him.
Too far to look “in control.”
And the truth is: I was battling myself more than anything.
Should I be right beside him?
Are people judging me?
Do I look unprepared?
Because I was unprepared.
I hadn’t packed a bag.
Had no towel to sit on.
Hadn’t even brought water.
My feet were now bare, my hair was sticking to my face, and I had sand where sand does not belong.
And still—it was working.
I taught Jimmy to raise his arms and slap the water with purpose. He laughed.
I guided him into a float, holding his hand as I pulled him gently through the shallows.
He let go when he was ready to explore again.
Eventually, he started inching toward my chair.
I got the message.
He wanted space.
He had this.
And so I let go. Just a little.
The Real Win
This beach day wasn’t about water.
It was about communication without words.
It was about following a lead that made no sense at the time but turned into something beautiful.
It was about trust—his in me, mine in him.
It was about discomfort, both physical and emotional.
It was about showing up messy, unprepared, uncertain—and doing it anyway.
And it was about Jimmy knowing what he needed, even if I didn’t.
For the Parents Who Get It…
If you’re deep in the season of trial and error, guessing games, and showing up without a script—I see you.
If your kid needs five introductions to something before they engage,
then does it once,
then avoids it for a month before trying again—
I see you.
If you’ve ever sat on the sidelines, soaked and sandy, wondering if people think you’re too lax, too weird, too unsure—
I see you.
You’re doing the invisible work.
You’re learning to lead from behind.
And you’re creating space for your child to show you who they are, at their own pace.
That’s not just parenting.
That’s courage.
And sometimes it shows up in a sundress and running shoes, with no towel and no clue—but a heart full of hope.
