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Nuki Nuki was not a dog, not a doll, not a security blanket in the traditional sense. Nuki Nuki was a square of faded blue flannel — originally part of a baby blanket — that had been chewed, knotted, and loved into the shape of a small, distressed octopus. Over the years, the fabric developed a scent that was part laundry detergent, part salt from old tears, part me.
I could not sleep without Nuki Nuki. I could not enter a new place without first rubbing the satin edge against my cheek. At nine, I was already aware this was weird. Other kids had stuffed animals with names like “Mr. Snuggles.” I had a rag that looked like something a shipwreck survivor might wave for rescue.
But Beach Mama understood. She never teased me. Instead, she sewed a small Velcro loop onto Nuki Nuki so I could attach it to my swimsuit strap. “So you don’t lose him to the tide,” she said. beach mama and my nuki nuki summer vacation m new
That was the first rule of our nuki nuki summer: Nuki Nuki goes everywhere.
There’s a moment, just before the chaos begins, when the ocean breeze carries nothing but possibility. That moment happened to me this summer — my first real vacation as a beach mama to my little one, whom I affectionately call Nuki Nuki. Nuki Nuki was not a dog, not a
If you’re wondering what “Nuki Nuki” means — honestly, it started as gibberish. A bedtime coo. A nonsense rhyme that stuck. Now, it’s our secret language for comfort, play, and summer sun. And this year, Nuki Nuki and I packed our bags, kissed routine goodbye, and headed to the shore for a summer vacation that would change us both.
This is the story of our beach adventure — and a guide for any mama (or new parent) looking to create their own sandy, salty, imperfectly perfect memories. There’s a moment, just before the chaos begins,
Every evening, we walked to the pier to watch the sunset. Nuki Nuki wrapped in a hooded towel, hair stiff with salt, eyes heavy but still searching for dolphins. I’d carry them on my hip — tired, sun-kissed, impossibly full.
We’d share a mango popsicle (messy, sticky, perfect). I’d whisper about the day:
“Remember when you chased the crab? Remember when we found the starfish? Remember when you fell asleep on my chest to the sound of waves?”
These are the moments that summer is made of. Not the curated photos — though I took plenty — but the quiet in-between. The sand between my toes long after we’d showered. The sunburn on my shoulders. The new freckle on Nuki Nuki’s nose.
