My son had a meltdown on the beach. This was a few days ago before my husband arrived and before I gave in to the expense and rented a car. I’d have to say that in the history of his three-year-old life this meltdown was the worst I’d ever seen. To be fair, I decided to walk to the beach in the hot late afternoon sun on a day he didn’t nap. We tumbled in the mild surf, saw two giant stingrays, collected seashells. All going fine until time to leave. Somehow, right then, the frayed cords holding him together got tangled, pulled taut, and snapped. Mindful he hadn’t slept I knew to treat him with care, to offer no suggestions, to agree benignly to everything he said even if the action needed was the exact opposite; just to tread oh so lightly until we got back to the villa. Until of course a well-meaning Rastaman decided to intervene and ask, “Small Man, like you not ready to leave the water?”
Small Man freaked the fuck out, grinding against me like an itchy calf against a tree, bellowing as if being lead to the abattoir.