Things No One Warns You About Raising a Kid in Central Florida

No one tells you how much mental math you’ll do about the weather.

Not just “is it hot?” — that part is obvious — but how hot, how humid, how fast the sky is about to open up, and whether it’s worth loading a child into the car just to be rained out seven minutes later. I used to check the weather once a day. Now I check it like it’s a mood ring.

Raising a kid in Central Florida is a whole specific experience. People warn you about hurricanes, sure. They do not warn you about the rest of it.

Let’s start with the heat.
You think you understand heat. You don’t. You think, I’ve been hot before. No. This is the kind of heat where your kid steps outside at 9 a.m. and immediately says, “I’m sweaty,” like it’s an observation worth reporting. Which it is. Because same.

Eric owns more water bottles than I do shoes. Sunscreen is not a seasonal item here — it’s a lifestyle. We keep one in the car, one in the backpack, one by the door, and somehow we’re still always out. I did not budget for this level of sunscreen consumption when I became a parent, but here we are.

And don’t get me started on rainy season.
Central Florida rain is aggressive. It doesn’t gently start. It shows up like it’s late to something. One second it’s bright and humid, the next second you’re sprinting through a parking lot while your kid thinks it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened.

You’ll learn to live in that in-between space where you’re not sure if the rain is a “wait ten minutes” rain or a “cancel everything and go get drive-thru” rain. Sometimes you guess wrong. Sometimes you sit in the car with foggy windows wondering why you didn’t just stay home.

Crowds are another thing no one really explains.
Yes, you know Orlando is busy. Tourists, conventions, school breaks, holidays that you didn’t even realize were holidays. But what no one tells you is how that trickles into normal kid life.

Birthday parties at theme parks are a thing. A real thing. You will RSVP yes to one before fully thinking through the logistics, and then you’ll find yourself explaining to your child why they can’t also ride every ride, buy every souvenir, and eat three Mickey-shaped snacks. All before noon.

It’s magical. And exhausting. Mostly exhausting.

School field trips here are… wild.
I remember field trips growing up being things like museums or local farms. Here, your kid comes home with a permission slip for a place people fly across the world to see. Eric casually mentions he’s going somewhere that tourists plan entire vacations around, and I’m standing there thinking about parking.

There’s a weird emotional whiplash to that. Gratitude mixed with “how is this just a Tuesday?”

You also learn quickly that “outdoor play” has a time limit.
Other places have seasons. We have windows. There’s a sweet spot in the morning where everything feels possible. Parks, playgrounds, walks. Then suddenly it’s not. The slide is hot enough to brand someone, and the shade feels like a rumor.

You’ll become very skilled at planning things early and ending them abruptly.

Also — bugs.
No one warns you how normal it becomes to apply bug spray like it’s lotion. Or how your kid will announce, very calmly, that there’s an ant on their leg while you’re trying not to overreact.

And then there’s the mental gymnastics of living where people vacation.
Your child doesn’t understand why not every weekend includes fireworks or characters or rides. They just know that those things exist nearby. Somewhere. You’ll explain budgets and timing and “special occasions” more than you expected.

At the same time, you’ll catch moments that feel oddly lucky. Random weekdays that feel special for no reason. Seeing your kid treat something extraordinary like it’s normal — which is kind of beautiful, actually.

Another thing no one warns you about: how tired you’ll get of being outside while also feeling guilty for not being outside.
Central Florida practically demands outdoor living. And sometimes you just want to sit inside with the AC blasting and not feel bad about it. Some weekends are for adventure. Some are for recovery.

Both count.

You’ll also develop strong opinions about parking, shade, and whether a place has enough bathrooms. These opinions will feel very important.

And yet…
Despite the heat, the rain, the crowds, the sunscreen budget, and the occasional meltdown in a theme park bathroom — there’s something grounding about raising a kid here. The unpredictability keeps you flexible. The environment forces you to slow down or adapt. Eric has grown up understanding storms, heat, nature, and how to pivot when plans fall apart.

Some days I miss seasons. Some days I wish everything wasn’t so loud and busy and damp. And then there are mornings where the sky is clear, the air is just tolerable, and my kid is happy doing something incredibly simple.

Those days don’t look like the postcards. But they feel real. And honestly, that’s the part no one warns you about either.