Eighteen Summers
I saw a Facebook post the other day that really set me off.
Nope, it wasn’t political.
Or a veiled guilt trip at working moms. (The algorithms have definitely figured me out on that front.)
It wasn’t even a recipe that made my taste buds leap out of my mouth, only to climb back in when my brain reminded them it doesn’t have the attention span to make it past the 6th step.
It was that infamous “You only have eighteen summers with your kid” post.
Look, I get the intent: “Parenting is hard, but there will be a time we’ll look back and miss these days.” “Take advantage of the time we have - it will be gone before we know it.” “Make memories you’ll be thankful for down the road.” “Soak in every moment.” (Although, let’s be real, there are plenty of moments I do NOT want to soak in. I want them to roll off me like rain on a duck covered in Crisco.)
But for me, when I saw that post, I didn’t feel a sudden call to action to construct a five-star Slip and Slide and whip up a Roblox-themed veggie tray. I didn’t start planning a camping trip or assemble a calendar of play dates or even explore local Groupons (and I’m always looking for a reason to hit up Groupon. 98% off a haircut? Sign me up - nothing could go wrong.)
I just froze.
After I thawed a bit, a middle-aged version of Inside Out characters rolled in. First, there was Acute Panic - as if I’d just fallen asleep and my son’s childhood years had already disappeared. My brain darted in a bunch of directions simultaneously, unsure of how to make the most of the apparently 14 seconds remaining of childhood. After that, Low-Grade Diffuse Anxiety entered the scene - the kind that makes you spin in circles like a dog chasing its tail, because you’re not quite sure where it came from or how to make it go away. Next, Misplaced Guilt sauntered in - while I do typically give myself a fair amount of grace as a parent, there’s always room for a general sense of inferiority.
Finally, Midlife Grief rounded out the bunch, a familiar face around these parts. I experience her often, as I slowly grow to acknowledge and accept the reality that secondary infertility has brought to our lives - in all likelihood, every first and last with our son is the only one we will have. There is no redo for the next kid, or an extension of those eighteen summers as multiple kids’ time at home overlaps. There is no admiring of the diversity of different children’s experiences. Even in my most fully present, joyful moments with my son, Midlife Grief seems to lurk in the shadows. I’ve tried to ignore her existence, focusing my gaze on what’s in front of me. I’ve even tried spraying her with the proverbial garden hose - this knocks her down for a bit, but she always seems to find her way back up. So far, the best ways I’ve found to deal with her is the same way I deal with all uncomfortable emotional visitors - acknowledge her presence, but keep moving on with our daily lives, stepping around her like a weed that I’ve given up pulling because it just shows up the next day.
Maybe the “Eighteen Summers” bit is helpful for you. Maybe it does inspire you to dive deep into this time with your kids and be more fully present. If that’s the case - good on ya. But if you’re like me, and Eighteen Summers elicits a similar cast of emotions with whom you’d rather not visit - let’s embrace something more along the lines of Eighteen Moments. We’ve got this moment in front of us, and a few after that, and then a handful following. Let’s focus on those - the ones immediately in our line of sight, those which we have the immediate ability to touch, to affect, to experience. May we slip in to the comfort of what’s here now - noticing each sunkissed cheek, each dirty finger grasping a watermelon rind, each footprint in the sandbox, each question about the sunset they stayed up too late to watch.
I’m convinced that’s the only real way to live life - receiving each moment as it comes and doing our best with each one, as they slowly accumulate behind us as memories. Thankfully, we still get to enjoy those, too.