This is the Summer

A freewrite; a bucket list; a photo essay

If you have children and an Instagram account, I am certain the mysterious-algorithm-powers-that-be have shoved a particular reel to the top of your explore page in the last couple of months. You know the one I mean—it lulls you into a false sense of security; drawing you in with gentle music and video clips of moms snuggling babies or chasing their young kids at the park. Your eyes soften and you smile, tilting your head ever so slightly as you think of your own children. Maybe you’re scrolling your phone after getting them in bed, or maybe you are hiding from them in the bathroom for a well deserved five minutes of quiet. Wherever you are, you feel a desire to close Instagram and hug your kids because you miss them all of a sudden.

Then, the subversive reel drops a bomb, the all capital letters shattering the sweet illusion it has created.

“MAMA, YOU ONLY HAVE 18 SUMMERS WITH THEM. MAKE EACH ONE COUNT.” 

Rude.

As a stay at home mom, I’ve never given much thought to summer—my kids are with me all of the time no matter the season. Summer is just a continuation of our everyday lives; we follow our normal routine, only it’s hot and we get to go to the pool sometimes. No unnecessary, manufactured panic to see here, Instagram.  

But this summer? This summer feels different. My oldest just finished Kindergarten and I am therefore experiencing a true summer break for the first time in my motherhood career. This summer, the Instagram reel got to me. 

Forget 18 summers, I only have 12 total of her school career! There’s this summer, then only 11 more, and then I’ll be driving her to move-in day at her college dorms! Cue the doom spiral. Suddenly, our simple routines didn’t seem good enough and, like a browser with way too many tabs open, I started mentally shuffling through all of the “memorable” activities I could pack into the next ten weeks. 

And then, almost as quickly as the panic started, a calm hush settled over my thoughts. I remembered our routines are intentional. They are simple by choice. Of course summer is perfect for memory making, and of course I’ve signed the kids up for fun activities, but the scarcity mindset promoted by this social media content stands in stark contrast to the value I place on my role as a mother. 

With this in mind, I sat down to write, intending to pen an anti-mom guilt manifesto of sorts—a rebuttal to the idea that our involvement in our kids' lives ends when they turn 18. Instead, a series of intentions poured out of me; a bucket list of the type of summer I hoped to create for my family. 

(Note: this piece originally appeared on Coffee + Crumbs social media)

This is the summer:
To ignore social media pressure.
To reject the Instagram reels that tell me I only have 18 summers that matter as a mom.
To resist the temptation to calculate how much time I've already "lost" with each of my children.
 
This is the summer:
To relish slow mornings at home.
To linger over coffee as long as my one-year-old lets me.
To let Curious George and Bluey accompany our breakfasts and feel zero guilt.
 
This is the summer:
To delight in the constant opening and closing of the back door.
To buy sidewalk chalk and bubble solution in bulk and allow the pineapple shaped blow-up pool to take up permanent residence on my lawn.
To turn a blind eye to dirt-filled play and embrace the phrase "that's what washing machines are for."
 
This is the summer:
To indulge the request for popsicles on each weekly grocery run.
To chase the ice cream truck when it drives down our street.
To enjoy Saturday dinner at the neighborhood pool.
 
This is the summer:
To meet friends for lunch dates at the dinosaur playground. 
To say yes to the Fairytale Town membership, because by next summer my six-year-old will have outgrown it.
To practice hospitality, even when my house and yard aren't perfect.
 
This is the summer:
To prioritize simple pleasures.
To let go of expectations.
To be together.

Tell me, what are your hopes for this summer?