Updated: April 12, 2019
Originally Published: April 10, 2019
At the waterpark, I find myself facing an unexpected and slightly uncomfortable reality: my children have no interest in playing with me, and it’s leaving me feeling a bit sad. If you’re reading this while dealing with a toddler who insists on playing the same game for the umpteenth time or building yet another LEGO structure, you might not empathize with my situation. I get it. Just a short while ago, I was the one losing my voice from pirate games, hoping my kids would take a break from pulling me in every direction.
That’s why I’m surprised at how hard this moment is hitting me. When we first arrived, the boys excitedly asked me to join them on “Albuquerque Falls.” We screamed with joy as we slid down together, while my partner, Jake, snapped photos from the sidelines. As we prepared to climb back up, Aziah looked back and said, “Mom, we can go alone this time.” I feigned a pout as I returned to Jake, who laughed and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll join you!”
“But you’re boring!” I replied, a little harshly—he looked disappointed. “I mean, you don’t like the slides!”
I decided to try the single-person slides, letting out a half-hearted “whooo” as I went down. The irony of this moment isn’t lost on me; my friends had warned me that this day would come, and I had anticipated it like a high schooler eager for college. Waterpark freedom meant my kids would become more self-sufficient, allowing me to relax with dry hair while they dashed around enjoying themselves. But now, it feels like a harsh initiation into adult life, complete with responsibilities and bills.
I sat down with Jake, debating whether “fit grandpa” genuinely works out or is just naturally athletic. I checked on the boys, who were making friends in the lazy river, fully immersing themselves in the fun. Aziah even made a heart shape with his hands to signal he had a crush. I found myself questioning why I had ever wanted to sip a cocktail poolside—it’s not like I drink much, and dry hair at a water park wasn’t a club I wanted to join.
After the waterpark, the boys were eager to dive into the MagiQuest game, which involves running all over the hotel waving a plastic wand at various objects to unlock clues. It’s an exhausting endeavor that no reasonable parent would want to follow. “Just relax by the fire, Mom!” they urged. Alone at last! Jake napped while I enjoyed some reading and people-watching. I observed a little girl in a bikini dancing with abandon, while her mother looked weary from chasing her.
An hour passed, and suddenly the boys were back, begging to hit the arcade. It’s essentially a kid’s casino where you spend money to earn tickets for cheap prizes. I loathe the kid casino. “Just take care of our cards, Mom; you can wait outside,” they insisted. I found a table outside, got an ice cream, and scrolled through my phone.
I should be thrilled, but I can’t shake this lingering sadness. It feels out of place, conflicting with the image of the “perfect mom” I aspire to be. I like to think of myself as someone who embraces every stage of parenting, ready to cherish the growth and change it brings. Yet here I am, grappling with the bittersweet nature of my children gaining independence.
As I blow-dry my hair before dinner, that quiet ache returns. This isn’t heart-wrenching sadness; it’s a subtle recognition of time slipping by. I text my mom about our aging dog, who’s nearing 12, diabetic, and likely won’t be with us much longer. Perhaps it’s the dog or the recent loss of a childhood friend of Jake’s that’s weighing on me. Am I truly sad about my kids becoming more independent?
What I’ve learned is that life is a blend of joy, humor, and sorrow. We can’t experience just one side; it’s all part of the journey. I sit back at the waterpark, watching a little girl joyfully stomping in the water, while her exhausted mother struggles to keep up.
The boys come running, pulling me toward the hot tub with only ten minutes left before closing. As Aziah snuggles into my lap, I can’t help but joke, “My little baby!” It’s a poignant moment—holding my fourth grader who’s almost as tall as I am. I realize how precious these fleeting times are, even as I wonder where the hours went.
In the end, I plan to savor every moment, no matter how brief.