As I sat by the tranquil lake one evening, a thought crossed my mind, echoing something a friend had shared. “Is this the last summer like this?” Her daughter, who was 11, was energetically practicing her crawl alongside her father, who was swimming in support. Meanwhile, her teenage son lounged in a beach chair, engrossed in a novel. Our 5-year-olds were happily splashing away in the kiddie area, while my little one was diligently transferring sand from a bulldozer to a bucket, only to dump it out again.
“No, no, there will be plenty more summers like this,” I reassured her, but deep down, I understood her sentiment. Time was indeed moving swiftly. Her teenager would be off to college in a year, and the 11-year-old would likely soon prefer hanging out with older friends at the beach. The 5-year-olds were on the brink of leaving the kiddie zone behind, ready to venture out to the floating dock. My toddler was just a step away from learning how to swim.
By next summer, everything would have changed. My 2-year-old would no longer require being carried as often; those sweet baby moments would fade. Our 5-year-olds would grow taller, their faces becoming more mature, and I’d notice the need for new clothes as they outgrew their current ones. They might even start questioning the meaning of certain words or display early signs of pre-teen attitude. It wouldn’t be long before they would seek snacks independently instead of asking for them, and bedtime routines could shift dramatically.
Next summer, I might transition from “Mama” to simply “Mom.” We could very well be done with diapers and strollers, and our travel plans might revolve around school schedules. In a few more summers, our older son might prefer camp over our cherished lake-house getaway.
“What if once she goes to college,” my friend Emily mused about her teenager, “she chooses to spend summers at home? What if this is the last summer all our kids join us for this vacation?” My friend Leo, who was also preparing to send his only child off to college, remarked, “This is the last summer I’ll have a kid at home, period.”
As a parent, every moment is fleeting, never to be replicated in the same way (with the exception of the exhausting newborn phase, where time feels suspended). Children grow at an astonishing rate—just the other day, when we returned from the lake, Emily sent her middle child to the bakery for bread, and the child that emerged appeared so much older than the one who had entered. I often find myself searching for my son on the playground, only to realize he’s grown so tall that he’s now a foot above where I expected him to be.
Tonight marks the end of our vacation, and the cicadas are signaling the onset of summer’s end. My sons are still giggling together, even though it’s well past their bedtime—they want to share a room, enjoying the camaraderie long after lights-out. Will this be the last summer they crave this closeness? The last summer they find joy in sparklers or are captivated by fireflies?
Summer, our favorite season, provides us with a break from the hectic morning rush and the chaotic dinner routines, allowing us to relish every moment. For me, summer is filled with fleeting instances that tug at my heart, reminding me that time is slipping away, just like water through my fingers as my boys grow older. Soon enough, they will be grown, and there may come a summer when my husband and I will fall asleep to the cicadas alone.
Being a parent expands your vision, allowing you to anticipate what lies ahead. You begin to understand that the older generation won’t always gather around the dinner table, and the younger ones won’t always fit comfortably on your lap. Time moves relentlessly forward, even during those long, lazy July days. Indeed, this is the last summer exactly like this.
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In summary, each summer presents its own unique moments, and as parents, we must treasure the time spent with our children before they inevitably grow and change.