We go to South Beach a lot. And by “a lot,” I mean so much that the parking attendants practically know my kids’ names. They wave us in with that look like, ah yes, the family circus has arrived. It’s fine. We bring our chaos with sunscreen.

South Beach is this weird little mix of paradise and punishment. On the one hand, that turquoise water makes me feel like I’m living inside a postcard. On the other hand, sand gets into places I didn’t know sand could go. Don’t ask me how—it’s just mom science.
The kids run straight into the waves before I’ve even dropped the bags. Nico’s yelling something about being a “shark hunter,” and Anthony has already decided the beach is his personal construction site. Meanwhile, Rex is doing that thing where he acts like he’s in charge of setting up the umbrella, but it looks more like he’s auditioning for a slapstick comedy. I swear the umbrella has beef with him. Every. Single. Time.
And me? I’m the human sunscreen dispenser. “Mom, my back!” “Mom, my nose!” “Mom, you missed a spot!” I should charge per squirt. By the time everyone’s covered, I’m so oily I feel like a greased watermelon at a county fair.
There’s something about South Beach though. The energy is different. Tourists snapping pictures like the ocean is about to vanish, locals blasting reggaeton from speakers the size of refrigerators, and us—wedged somewhere in between with our cooler full of Capri Suns and Publix subs. Honestly, I love love love people-watching there. Like, who wears heels to the beach? I’ve seen it. Multiple times. Miami, you never disappoint.
Of course, half the time I’m juggling snacks like a street vendor. “Who wants chips? Who ate all the fruit already? No, you can’t just have cookies for lunch.” Meanwhile, seagulls are circling like tiny feathered mob bosses, waiting for Anthony to drop a Cheez-It. And he always drops a Cheez-It.
Rex tries to pretend he’s relaxing—he does that deep sigh and leans back like he’s in a Corona commercial. But then Nico comes running out of the water, dripping wet, yelling about how he needs goggles right now because “Dad, you don’t understand, there’s treasure out there!” Suddenly Rex is back on lifeguard duty.
The part I secretly love, though, is when we all just sit for a second. Like, really sit. The boys munching on sandy sandwiches, Rex actually winning the battle with the umbrella, and me staring at that horizon, letting the chaos blur into background noise. The waves, the heat, the laughter—it’s messy and loud, but it’s ours.
By the time we drag ourselves back to the car, everyone’s sticky, sunburned in weird patches, and complaining about who has to sit in the middle seat. And I’m there thinking, yep… same thing next weekend. South Beach has us hooked, like some kind of salty, sunscreen-scented magnet.
So yeah, we go to South Beach a lot. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything, not even the sand stuck in the cupholders of my car.