Time is once again playing its tricks on me—zooming by even as some days meander on forever. It’s not just the hectic back-to-school rush or the avalanche of work deadlines, although those are certainly present. It’s the way Chloe tosses her hair and raises her eyebrows in exasperation, declaring, “This is just weird!” as she glances around to ensure we all recognize her maturity. It’s Lily retreating into her own little universe, lost in emotions, video games, and snippets of song lyrics. Then there’s Mia, thrashing about in her sleep, limbs spilling over the edges of her pajamas, her hair framing her face in a way that highlights the changes sprouting in her features.
I resist the notion that some chapters of our lives are already written, that paths I promised I wouldn’t take are now unavoidable. All I want is for life to feel a touch more manageable—just enough to wrestle time back into my grasp. I long for mornings where I know exactly what’s going into lunchboxes, how to dress, and what preparations are needed for the day ahead. But the more I strive for that calm certainty, the more the day spirals out of control, with one commitment leading to another that I’ll have to forgo.
“You mean you won’t be there to see me get my new belt?” Mia asks, disappointment etched across her face.
“No, I said I’ll be there Saturday for the testing when you earn your belt, but I might not make it back by Monday for the ceremony.” My tone was resolute, but the thin layer of strength couldn’t mask the turmoil within. I don’t want to miss either moment. How did I lose grip on my own life?
Glancing at my calendar, I see a sea of purple commitments. The lines of my obligations clash against the neat little boxes, slashing this way and that—overlapping chaos that feels endless. There’s no trophy for being busy, yet simplifying my schedule seems impossible.
Last weekend, one of the few remaining free weekends of the year, we found ourselves driving to Boston. We decided on a quick overnight trip, but the children are in a phase where carsickness is the norm, and we had to rush back home Sunday for an event starting at noon. That meant a grueling four-hour drive twice within 24 hours.
I booked a hotel 30 minutes outside the city, armed with Bonine and Dramamine, packed snacks, and tried to shake off my frustration at once again being trapped by a schedule I helped create. The kids were chirping in the backseat.
“Will there be tall buildings?”
“Can we eat at restaurants?”
“Do you think the hotel will have a pool?”
Their rapid-fire questions sent me into a daze: “Yes. Uh-huh. Maybe. I’m not sure. Whatever happens, we’ll have an adventure.” My instinct to please and manage everything kicked in, similar to my sales pitches at work.
As I turned on a movie for them, I leaned my head against the window, allowing a montage of my own childhood road trips to fill my mind. The bittersweet memories of loved ones tugged at my heart—my grandparents at the airport, breathtaking views on the way to family vacations, and quiet moments in the car filled with tears and laughter.
I checked on the girls, wondering what they would take away from this trip. Would it be my complaints about the hotel costs? Sean’s enthusiasm for the boat races? The matching shirts we wore? Then Briar tilted her head and mouthed, “You know I love you, right?” I stifled a sound that could have been a sob or a laugh. There’s so much of me in her, the shared awareness of joy and pain.
“Yes, I do, sweetie.”
The trip turned out to be a whirlwind of laughter and enchantment. I stopped worrying about their memories and let the day unfold naturally.
The hotel did have a pool and a fantastic lifeguard that we won’t forget. As we packed up to leave, the girls buzzed with excitement. “Remember when we saw the top of Boston?”
On our way home through New Hampshire and Vermont, the scenery was beautiful, and we stopped at a quaint cafe in Bethel, Vermont, for sandwiches and soup. The girls gushed over the waterfalls we could see from the window. To my surprise, there were no complaints about the food; instead, we chatted and laughed together, five people simply enjoying lunch on a road trip. It was delightful.
When we reached the parking lot, the girls wanted to climb a retaining wall. Normally, I’d rush them to be careful and hurry to the car, but this time, we let them explore. Briar went first.
“Dad, catch me in the air!” My husband spun around with the camera, and I watched, arms twitching, remembering the days when “catch me” meant something entirely different—our arms outstretched, waiting to feel her light form safe in our grasp. Now, we don’t catch her in the same way, and it’s a bittersweet realization.
“Did you see me?” she asked breathlessly. And I smiled, knowing it was okay—even if it still stung—because we were there for her, and we taught her to catch herself. It’s all part of the journey.
The swirl of memories, aspirations, and the emotions tied to them swirl within me, relying on each other to exist and leaving their mark deep in my soul. As I exhaled, a little ragged but still freeing, I reminded myself: It’s not about how things are. What truly matters is that we simply are.