Moving to Hawaii may sound like a dream come true, but for our family, it was a forced relocation thanks to a set of orders from the U.S. Navy. We were excited about island life, but five military duty stations into my marriage, I knew better than to expect an easy transition.
Week one felt like a vacation. My husband and I had never been to Hawaii, so everything was fresh: waterfall hikes, shave ice, world-class beaches. Even the one-lane traffic on the North Shore felt charming. These weren’t orders we requested or expected, but we kept telling ourselves: This is going to be great! As well as: The kids are resilient! They’re going to be fine!
By week two, our 5-year-old middle child, Alice, had fully committed to not being fine.
Her Hawaii life was starting to sound like her personal version of “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.” She had to share a bed with her little sister. Her nose got sunburned. On day three at the new-to-us beach, she got stung by a box jellyfish.
And all the other kids at the Navy Lodge seemed to be either her big brother’s age or her little sister’s — not a single new best friend in sight. Every sentence began with “I juuuust don’t like…” and ended with “…and can we please juuuuust go back to Virginia?”
