Sometimes, I find myself feeling as though I’ve been swept into a time vortex. Another summer has slipped away. The evenings are growing cooler, soccer matches have commenced, and dance lessons are just around the corner. Before we know it, Thanksgiving will be upon us, swiftly followed by Christmas, lacrosse, track, and recitals. Eventually, the last summer with both my children at home will arrive, and with each passing month, I sense an unsettling approach of an inevitable conclusion.
How did we get here?
It seems like just yesterday I was at the pool, juggling a 2- and a 4-year-old. The heat was relentless, and I was preoccupied with thoughts about my post-pregnancy swimsuit body and the constant fear of my children drowning. Kindergarten, let alone high school or college, felt like a distant dream. I vividly recall exchanging glances with another mother at the baby pool, her eyes seemingly pleading: Wouldn’t it be lovely to relax under that shade tree with a good book? Yes, I’d reply in my mind. I could hardly wait for my daughter to swim without my help—so she wouldn’t need me anymore.
Time has slipped away unnoticed, and it’s been three years since I last visited the pool. My daughter has outgrown my assistance in swimming—she would be embarrassed if I showed up now. She has her friends, trendy swimsuits, and boys vying for her attention.
While cleaning under the bed recently, I discovered a lonely green Lego piece. Our family’s days of constructing imaginative brick worlds are long gone. When my children were younger, I often felt the urge to push them forward, to rush through phases like the Lego era. Perhaps my busy work life combined with the overwhelming demands of small children made me yearn for the next stage. Or maybe it was simply my frustration with those tiny Lego pieces that seemed to scatter everywhere.
Rush. Rush. Rush.
If I could turn back time, I would slow down. I would build a few more Lego castles. I carefully placed that green brick in my jewelry box to preserve the memory.
Where have the American Girl dolls gone? The 500 stuffed animals? The princess costumes? The enormous dollhouse? Perhaps I should file a report for their disappearance. I have been replaced by friends, activities, and interests of their own.
And what happened to my sweet son’s floppy hair? In its place stands a 6-foot teenager with a crew cut who mostly grunts and says “I don’t know.” The girl inhabiting the room once occupied by my willful toddler asked me to buy tampons and mascara at the store. Oh my goodness!
I see a middle-aged woman with fine lines and gray hair staring back at me in the mirror.
Most Friday and Saturday nights are quiet now.
I’m no longer the young mom I once was. My children don’t rely on me in the same way they did when they were little. Yet just the other day, my son requested I toss the lacrosse ball for him to practice shooting. So, I did. And last week, he suggested we watch Boyz n the Hood together. My desk was piled with to-do lists and articles to proofread, and I was eager for a block of uninterrupted time to work. But green Lego.
We settled in to watch the movie and ended up discussing it afterward. It was one of the few tranquil moments we shared this summer. My daughter often chats late into the night, just when I think I can’t stay awake any longer. But I do, because as long as she needs me, I’ll be there.
They still require rides, guidance, and boundaries. Like newborns, they seem to need to eat constantly. The toys of their childhood are disappearing at an alarming rate.
But times are changing.
We have navigated through many phases together. We are heading towards new horizons, filled with intriguing adventures and fresh beginnings. I intend to cherish each moment and not rush through them. Whether it’s watching a movie or engaging in a heartfelt conversation, even if it means pausing my own tasks, it’s worth it.
This is what every parent desires, right? Independent children. My mother reassures me that my kids will always need me, just as I still need her, and that each stage brings its own challenges. However, I simply wasn’t prepared for how swiftly this un-need phase would arrive. It’s like the laws of physics bend when you become a mom. The lasts come at you like asteroids.
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