I am on my third cup of coffee for the day. I usually drink two, but today definitely felt like a three cup day, one for each child. Something like that anyway.
Social media has been full of the “only 18 summers” narrative for as long as I’ve had it. Even before I had children I recall reading it. It’s hauntingly true, but also not really the point. It makes it seem like every single second of summer should be more cherished than the last. It puts pressure on mommas (and daddies and kids and everyone) that’s already feeling the pressure of time passing. What if we looked forward to every season like we do summer.
This year has been a hot one. My oldest’s fourth summer, and it was too hot to do anything. Only fourteen more, it really is terribly sad when I dwell on it. But I’m not raising him to grow up and run away, never to return. I’m aware that could happen, but I try to keep the thought at bay. My other children are on their third and first summers, time ticks away at the summers they have left. I hope they grow up and come back home.
As I sip on my coffee and watch my boys wrestle in the floor, even though I’ve asked them not to several times; I revel in the knowledge that years have more than one season. Summer is great, no school and all that, but we also get eighteen springs, falls, and winters. There are memories to be made on Sundays in the spring, and Wednesdays in the fall. There is always something to enjoy with childhood. And as long as there is coffee to give me the energy they have, I’m ready for the years ahead.
