If you’ve ever tried to strap a toddler into a car seat in August in Tampa, then you know what actual hellfire feels like. Forget hot yoga—just buckle a sweaty child into a five-point harness while you’re sweating through your bra. That’s Tampa summer motherhood in a nutshell. And yet, we survive. Not gracefully, maybe, but with a mix of sunscreen, snacks, and desperation-fueled creativity. Over the years I’ve collected a few tricks that keep me from completely losing it in the sticky season, and honestly, they’ve saved me more than once.
First things first: indoor play spaces are my love language. We moms live for air-conditioning. I’ve spent more afternoons than I can count at the Glazer Children’s Museum, watching my kids run pretend grocery stores and build foam towers while I camp out on a bench like I live there. The libraries, too—those glorious, free, air-conditioned havens where my children can bang on toy blocks in the kids’ area while I sneak in a chapter of a book I’ll never finish. Even the mall play zones are fair game in summer. Judge me if you want, but that Chick-fil-A with the indoor playground has basically raised my youngest.
And then, there are splash pads—the holy grail of Florida moms. We live for those spurts of recycled water shooting up from the ground. Ballast Point, Water Works Park, Curtis Hixon… you name it, we’ve tried it. They’re like a mini miracle: the kids are entertained, cooled off, and too busy squealing to whine. Last week, my son kept trying to “block” the fountains with his butt, which worked about as well as you’d expect, but at least he was occupied for an hour. Pro tip: always pack dry clothes. Nothing kills the ride home faster than a damp toddler in a car seat who smells like wet socks.
Frozen treats are another survival tool. If you don’t have a mental map of every snow cone stand, ice cream shop, and smoothie place within a 10-mile radius of your house, are you even a Tampa mom? There’s a spot near Seminole Heights with popsicles that taste like they were invented by angels, and let me tell you, handing one of those over to a cranky kid is like pressing the mute button. For me, it’s the milkshakes at Dairy Joy that do the trick. I’ve bribed my children with sprinkles so many times I’m shocked the employees don’t greet us by name.
Shade is another thing I’ve learned to chase like it’s a full-time job. Lettuce Lake Park is a lifesaver. Boardwalks, big trees, and just enough breeze to make you feel like you’re surviving the surface of the sun. Al Lopez Park is another solid bet with wide shaded paths for strollers. And if I find one more park with a playground in full sun at 2 p.m., I might actually petition the city to add giant umbrellas everywhere.
Now, the secret weapon: my “Tampa Mom Summer Survival Bag.” It’s basically Mary Poppins’ carpetbag but with less whimsy and more Goldfish crackers. Inside: sunscreen (the spray kind, because no child stands still for lotion), at least three extra outfits, bug spray (Florida mosquitoes are actual monsters), snacks that won’t melt (goodbye, chocolate), a pack of wipes that could clean an army tank, and water bottles for each child plus one for me. Bonus: a cheap foam fan from Target that has saved my sanity more times than I can count.
I’ll be real—some days still feel unbearable. There are afternoons where the kids are sticky, the car smells like sunscreen and French fries, and I swear the air is thick enough to chew. But then we’re sitting under a shady oak tree with popsicles dripping down our arms, and the kids are giggling about something dumb, and suddenly it feels worth it. Messy, sweaty, but worth it.
That’s the thing about Tampa summers—you don’t exactly beat them. You just find ways to laugh, eat a cold treat, and keep moving. And maybe, just maybe, you learn to appreciate the chaos for what it is: a hot, sticky memory in the making.
