18 Summers

Letting go and holding on. Holding on to THIS

If you’re a parent, I’m sure you’ve heard these words: “You only get 18 summers with your kids. Make them count.” I used to hear that and think, oh, ok -this is just another way to guilt us into thinking we’re not doing enough for/with our children.

But now? Staring at the start of that 18th summer with my firstborn - I get it. I suddenly feel whiplashed. And desperate to make this summer last.

I also happen to be in a season of my life where I feel a frequent pull to share with my words. For the past 20 months I have come to Substack and shared a weekly newsletter to peel back my mind a bit about what is going on with me and in me. I have published 117 times here. But these next 12 weeks, I will push pause on the page. Because I need a slow summer with my son.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how so many of us resist the THIS. We resist the this that we are in whether it’s something hard, easy or somewhere in between. The attention economy has us by the shirt collar and yanks us around. It is so easy to distract ourselves away from the day we are in. The this I am in right now; I have to stay in it. I have to fully roll around in it. Because this feels worthy of a sacred pause.

We only get 18 summers. I have heard this said so many times in the years since I’ve become a mom. It’s one of those clichés people utter in an attempt to drop you into the preciousness of raising a child. Well, clichés are echoed and repeated because they ring true.

18 years ago this June, Nathan came roaring into this world seven weeks early and totally took me by surprise. From day one he looked out at the world with big brown saucer eyes sporting lashes they can’t bottle in a tube of mascara. I’ve spent 18 years marveling at his eyes. And what an honor it has been to see the world through his.

My maternal heart is pumping so hard to get my attention. It is telling me I need a certain rhythm this summer. One that will honor the mixed bag of emotions that I know will get jangled around. One that will allow my mind to sink into my heart without being yanked back to the list of commitments I made. A more relaxed rhythm of summer feels necessary.

I’m yearning for a summer of underwhelm. A daily rhythm that makes room for white space. Open minutes to marvel again as his mom. I want to pack away the other ways I overwhelm myself and undermine the freedom and flow of my heart.

Nate must have sensed this in me because this past April, this was what he included with my birthday card:

Coupons to cash in for one-on-one time with him before he flies 975 miles away for college. I want to be a frequent flier with this kid again. I’m not willing to let brevity wash over me without taking a long dip in these coming days. I want to put my feet in the ocean with this boy and remember him splashing around as a chubby toddler.

This boy who is a hoophead with a heart of gold. This boy who for years insisted on buying his Halloween costume in July. This boy who I know will grow into a man that takes such sweet care of the women in his life.

This boy is inviting his mother to spend time with him. So, yeah. I’m willing to put down the pen, put down the phone. I will look into those same eyes that delivered me and welcomed me to motherhood. My eyes will surely tear up as I watch him walk away, but they will know that their gaze was set upon this on this last summer.

I remember the lump in my throat the day I snapped this photo. Nate walking away -towards his first day of kindergarten.

Nate - I am already marveling at how you are starting your adult years. At the way you decided to give yourself permission to follow passion these next four years and not be pulled by persuasion. The way you know what you want is inspiring. I didn’t have that at 18. You have an incredible ability to turn down outside noise and stay submerged in what lights you up. So, keep doing that. Keep turning down the volume when the outside world amps up, insisting they know the path you should follow. Keep choosing you.

Nate - all of this is how I see you. But most importantly, you know how you see yourself. You know you.

When my children were younger, we made summer bucket lists. The kids would scribble all the things they wanted to do and see on an oversized sheet of paper then tape it to the kitchen wall. A visual cue each time we prepared meals in the kitchen. What did we want summer to feed us?

From water parks to camping in the backyard to starting a seashell collection, our lists were littered with pleas for fresh air.

If I close my eyes and think back to my favorite summer moments as a mom, I see a kaleidoscope of memories on the beach. When I breathe into it, my body remembers how it felt resting in the beach chair at low tide, bum and feet in sync, a duo sinking in the wet sand. The sun would dip lower in the sky as my feet would be kissed with the tide’s slow release after each crested wave laid down.

The soft hum of the flattened waves luring my scheduled worries out to sea for a swim. There was no place else we needed to be. The gentle undulating water becoming a slow drip of oxytocin, a tenderized drop into *right now*. The perfect combo was always a late afternoon low tide. When the sun hung low and so did the worries.

I am bracing myself for the impact of late summer this year. The moments will pull me under like quicksand. I cannot still the ocean or stop the tide. I cannot keep time from crashing on.

But I can rest my heart in the knowing that this kid of mine, he’s going to make waves. His heart will ripple out and he will find his flow. As he individuates these next four years, I get to concentrate in my own course of study. I can major in growing more intimate with my maternal heart. The chambers that embrace both/and. I can hold the pang of his launch. This chapter is done, and I can place the book down. I trust that the sequel will be stellar.

So, dear readers, forgive me as I take a break from publishing new essays here at DARE TO BE. I’m going to cash in those handmade coupons before this summer expires. I feel like I’m holding a winning lottery ticket.

Rather than check metrics, I’ll choose moments. I want a hands-free, eyes up, heart open summer.

I trust that my Muse will recognize this as a sacred pause and will carry my words for me until I’m ready to pour them on the page again.

As my son cleans out his closets and drawers and packs up his belongings, I want to be there as a steady witness. Which means emptying my calendar of as much expectation as possible.

I’ll be back with fresh words in the fall. For now, I’ll be co-authoring our 18th summer bucket list.

Nate turns 18 on June 12th. And as I do every year, I will play this song to him. It is my annual reminder to be simple man. A lyrical lob of a message. An attempt at saying, hey, I know wanting to soar is admirable, but it’s the simple days that prove most satisfying.

If you have a son who is preparing to launch, maybe these songs will speak to you, too. I have these ones in the rotation, and they always make me think of my dude Nate.

REFLECT WITH ME:

• Do you make bucket lists for your summer? If you had to write one for 2025 right now, what would be on it?

• If you could only describe yourself at age18 using one word only, what would it be?

  MESSAGE FOR PAID SUBSCRIBERS:

• I will be pausing your subscriptions while I take this break from DARE TO BE. But please keep an eye on the chat feature. I would love to host a Zoom a couple times so that we can gather and talk together about our summer - what is pulling at us and causing us pause.

  MESSAGE FOR ALL SUBSCRIBERS:

• I plan on posting essays from my archives each Friday. Many of you are newish here so I hope you have an opportunity to read what I shared months ago. For those who have been here all along, maybe a revisit will feel refreshing.

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Nate is an easy subject to write about because he is easy to love. Here’s one from the archives. It is a letter I penned to Nate 15 months ago, as I was bracing for the days I am steeped in now.