Summer with small children alternates between chaos and boredom.
When my children were young, I started every summer with the best of intentions: Mondays would be park day. On Tuesdays, we would go to whichever museums were free in Balboa Park. Wednesdays were Dollar Day at the nearby movie theater. On Thursdays we would go to the beach. Fridays, exhausted, we would stay home and do crafts or set up the tiny plastic wading pool.
Each outing would involve a complicated assembly of strollers, diaper bags, sippy cups, plastic bags of Cheerios, sunscreen, and extra books and toys to stave off boredom. I felt like a pioneer setting off for the Oregon Trail every time I packed the car and strapped little ones into car seats.
I learned that turning up the radio covered the sound of bickering. I learned every word of a thousand children’s songs. I wondered if people could actually lose their sanity hearing “The Wheels on the Bus” too many times.
As summers wore on, I started slacking. Maybe letting the kids watch an hour of educational television while I drank my coffee and read the newspaper wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Perhaps making them play quietly in their rooms would help them develop creativity and imagination. I began to consider the merits of my parents’ strategy of shooing us all outdoors until the sun went down. By early August, I was willing to consider anything that didn’t involve packing the car, building with Legos, or playing princess.
Like most children, mine became easier and more interesting as they grew. Outings evolved into adventures, rather than trials to be endured. The kids liked – or at least tolerated – my music, and we were able to retire ancient Barney cassettes. I found the balance between exposing them to interesting and educational experiences and letting them relax at home. They argued, they invented, they were thick as thieves, they ignored each other. Some days they planned puppet shows and circuses for me, and others they called each other names and yelled, “Mom!” at frequent intervals.
And then they became teenagers.
We debated politics. We argued about sports. We disagreed over the best way to spend time; one child wanted to spend all day outdoors, while the other came outside only under duress. We gently struggled for control over the radio, and more than once I wondered if people could actually lose their sanity hearing One Direction or Jonas Brothers songs too many times. But they were interesting and funny, and more importantly, could now pack their own belongings. Summers were easier and more fun.
Time is a funny thing, though. It sneaks up on us and when we least expect it, car seats and sippy cups are a distant memory. This summer both children are working two jobs each, and I find myself with a surplus of unstructured time on my hands. I am conscious of time slipping away; in a short time they will be adults and gone. At the age at which they make the best company, they are absent the most. It is an odd feeling to arrange my days around their work schedules, to wake up earlier than I would like or stay up later than I should, just to make sure I have time to connect with each one of them. I gently bully them into spending the rare free moments together, and force a few family outings when possible.
In the meantime, I am learning new ways to spend my days. Gone are the excuses for not exercising, housecleaning, or organizing. I can meet friends for coffee, buy underwear without interference, and drink soda without having to explain to my children why I can have one and they can’t. The car radio is tuned to the station I want. I can spend an entire day outside in the sunshine reading a book. I can pick up hobbies I put aside decades ago. The amount of freedom I have is almost overwhelming.
When I look back at the harried young mom I was, packing diaper bags and planning outings with a frenzy, stepping on Legos and sweeping up Cheerios, refereeing arguments and rolling my eyes while rereading the same favorite book for the hundredth time, I want to whisper to her, “Calm down.” I want to tell her that summers aren’t a test of one’s prowess as a parent, that perfect parenting is a myth, and that “Mom, tell him to stop looking at me!” will not be a permanent refrain. I want to remind her that the while the days are long, the years are so very short.
Hold on, young moms, but not to too tightly. Summer will be over before you know it.
