Eighteen Summers

I've recently discovered that we only get eighteen summers with our children. It was a rather unsettling revelation, especially since I have apparently used up every single one of mine without even realizing there was some sort of countdown going on.

I don't remember anyone mentioning this when my children were born. Nobody at the hospital informed me that family summers were a limited resource or suggested I might want to keep some sort of record. And I'm generally someone who appreciates a little advance notice. I would at least have liked to know whether there were any specific requirements for a summer to qualify.

Had I known, I might have made more of an effort some years. Particularly the summer when it rained for three weeks straight and we eventually started considering a trip to IKEA a legitimate family outing. I remember buying something we needed, eating hot dogs, and going home again. The kids seemed happy. I was mostly pleased that we'd managed to leave the house and nobody needed a change of clothes afterward.

Looking back, it was actually a pretty successful day. Although I'm not entirely sure how it would hold up in an official assessment of our eighteen summers.

I came across the whole concept on social media, where the message is that we only have eighteen summers before our children grow up and start living lives of their own. We're supposed to cherish the time, make memories, and be present, because one day it will all be over.

It's a lovely thought, of course. I was even a little moved when I first read it. Then I started wondering what exactly I'd done with all our summers, which was naturally the very thing I was supposed to avoid.

Because I can't help wondering whether this whole countdown might have the opposite effect of what was intended.

If we start counting how many summers we have left while our children are still small, what happens to our ability to actually enjoy them? Are we supposed to sit on the beach thinking, Well, this is summer number eleven, so we only have seven left? And what happens when we reach summer sixteen out of eighteen? Do we start feeling the need to compensate for previous years of less-than-spectacular vacation planning?

I know myself well enough to realize I could have become quite unbearable with that information.

I probably would have started planning in January, making lists of everything we hadn't experienced yet and feeling vaguely uncomfortable at the thought of an entire summer week without a single scheduled activity. Not because anyone had actually asked for any of it, but because I would have convinced myself that time was running out.

And I wonder what it does to children when we adults start treating every summer vacation as an opportunity we absolutely cannot afford to waste. When every day off is expected to contain something special because Mom and Dad are so determined to create memories before it's too late.

That's quite a lot of responsibility to place on an ordinary Tuesday in July.

Like so many things that begin as a beautiful idea, this one seems to have somehow turned into yet another thing parents are expected to excel at. Apparently, it's no longer enough to simply spend summer vacation together. We're also supposed to be consciously aware that we're spending summer vacation together, appreciate every moment, and preferably create memories our children will carry with them for the rest of their lives. Ideally involving sand between their toes, sunsets, and some spontaneous activity that makes the entire family laugh at exactly the same time.

I've seen the pictures. Families sitting on blankets in the golden evening light, looking as though they've achieved some higher state of spiritual togetherness. Nobody appears to have forgotten the picnic cutlery, nobody has accidentally sat on an anthill, and not a single adult looks remotely concerned about whether the food left in the car is still safe to eat.

I suspect there's an extraordinary amount of planning behind all that spontaneity.

I've always had a certain talent for organizing enjoyable activities. I can spend an unreasonable amount of time researching places to visit, restaurants, and possible excursions. Or, to be entirely accurate, I can get Adam to do it. Only to discover afterward that all we really needed was a free afternoon and something nice to eat.

This has rarely stopped me from making another plan the next time around. Or asking Adam to make one.

But at some point, you have to wonder why everything needs to be so perfect. And, more importantly, who exactly decided what perfect looks like.

Because there's absolutely no guarantee that my children and I share the same definition.

I might think the perfect summer day involves a trip to the beach, a beautifully packed picnic basket, and a reasonably ambitious activity that's both entertaining and slightly educational. The children might prefer lying in Mom and Dad's bed, watching Barbie or Lightning McQueen, and eating popcorn.

And when I think about it, I can hardly blame them.

There you are, all snuggled up together, with no need to get dressed or remember to pack anything. It doesn't matter if it's raining, and there's nowhere you need to be. You might not even finish the movie because someone falls asleep or the conversation suddenly wanders off in a completely different direction.

It's entirely possible that I would have struggled to consider this a proper vacation activity if I had a list of attractions we were supposed to visit.

Which is a shame, because perhaps that was exactly the kind of afternoon the children wanted.

It reminds me of Alfie Atkins's grandmother, who understood something long ago that we adults seem to have forgotten. That it's actually good to be bored sometimes, because otherwise you don't really appreciate the moments when you're having fun.

It's a rather liberating thought, especially in a world where we barely dare let a free afternoon pass without filling it with something meaningful.

Alfie's grandmother didn't seem particularly concerned about whether she'd maximized their shared experiences. She simply let life unfold, which may well be one of the reasons she comes across as so wise.

When I think back on our own summers, I wonder why I even feel the need to question whether we did them right.

We traveled, swam, ate ice cream, and experienced all sorts of things together. But we also had days when absolutely nothing happened. Days when someone slept too late, someone else wanted to do something, and nobody could agree on what. We packed beach bags, forgot things at home, searched for parking spaces, and tried to remember who had last seen the sunscreen.

I remember how getting ready for the beach could take an eternity. Swimsuits, towels, snacks, something to read, something to play with, something to sit on, and preferably something extra in case one of the other things didn't work out.

By the time we finally arrived, I could feel so pleased with myself for having managed to bring everything that the actual beach visit almost seemed like a bonus.

Sometimes we were wonderfully harmonious. Other times, we were simply a fairly ordinary family who happened to be on vacation together.

And when we talk about those trips years later, it turns out that the children's strongest memory isn't necessarily the spectacular attraction I'd spent weeks researching. It might just as easily be a strange ice cream, a cat outside the hotel, or that time Dad walked in the wrong direction.

Personally, I may remember the hotel's cancellation policy.

It's both slightly frustrating and incredibly reassuring.

Because perhaps it means that the biggest experiences aren't always the ones that stay with us. Sometimes it's everything that happens around them. A conversation in the car, an evening that seemed to go on forever, or a perfectly ordinary Tuesday when everyone happened to be in an unusually good mood.

At the same time, I do understand the idea behind those eighteen summers. Because something certainly changes as children grow up.

Although I can't help thinking the calculation is a little optimistic.

Eighteen summers suggests that children will continue wanting to spend every summer vacation with their parents, with undiminished enthusiasm, right up until their eighteenth birthday. As though a seventeen-year-old would automatically agree to three weeks of family vacation simply because there's technically one summer left according to the official calculation.

I suspect that starts changing considerably earlier.

Somewhere around summer thirteen or fourteen, other things begin to look more appealing. Friends, plans of their own, and a growing desire to decide how to spend their time. Suddenly, Mom and Dad are no longer the obvious first choice for every free day.

And that's exactly how it should be.

It would probably be considerably stranger if the children were approaching eighteen and still considered the highlight of their summer to be accompanying us to some attraction I'd discovered after three hours of research.

But the change happens almost without us noticing. Nobody comes home on a Thursday and announces that this was the last summer when a family vacation could be taken for granted. It's more of a gradual shift, until one day you realize there are suddenly more calendars to consider than the one hanging on the refrigerator.

And even though that's exactly how life is supposed to unfold, I sometimes miss the days when we were all together without having to make particularly elaborate arrangements. When we still lived in our own little world and I knew roughly where everyone was.

At least most of the time.

There's something peculiar about parenthood. You spend so many years helping your children become independent, and then, when they succeed, you can still feel a little ache of longing for the days when they needed you for almost everything.

I'm enormously proud that my children can manage their own lives. That's the whole point, after all. And yet I can occasionally find myself slightly surprised when they tell me about something they've arranged, decided, or solved without my even knowing the issue existed.

I simply have to get used to the fact that my role in their lives no longer includes complete access to all ongoing matters.

But what puzzles me most about the eighteen-summers theory is that my children don't seem to have realized our summers together are supposed to be over.

They keep being part of my life.

We see each other, talk, eat together, and share whatever is happening. Sometimes it's something important, sometimes something that doesn't really matter at all but that you still want to tell someone about.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, our relationship has changed, almost without my noticing when it happened.

I'm still their mother, but I also get to know the adults my children have become. Their thoughts, their humor, their ways of looking at the world. Things that are no longer simply extensions of my own everyday life, but belong to lives that are entirely their own.

Sometimes we're sitting around the kitchen table talking, and I suddenly realize I'm listening to someone with thoughtful, intelligent opinions about life. Someone I once had to help put the correct shoe on the correct foot, who now has perspectives on things I haven't even considered myself.

It's a rather extraordinary experience, actually.

Especially when I realize they're sometimes right, and I can no longer fall back on the argument that I'm the adult and therefore automatically know best.

There's something incredibly beautiful about that.

We no longer have to spend every vacation together to belong to one another. We don't even have to enjoy the same kinds of vacations. When we spend time together, it's because we want to, and that's a different kind of closeness from the one we shared when the children were small.

Not better or worse.

Just different.

And as if life itself wanted to demonstrate how absurd it is to put an expiration date on family life, I've also become a grandmother.

Suddenly, there's a tiny person who makes me rediscover things I haven't thought about in years. Little hands, little feet, and that completely effortless ability to make an entire family stop what they're doing to admire something that, to the rest of the world, is a fairly ordinary occurrence.

I'm normally quite capable of filling an entire day with things that need to be done. Yet these days I can find myself sitting perfectly still, watching a little person examine her own fingers, and consider it an excellent use of my time.

I've also noticed that I'm already looking forward to summers that are still years away. Watching her discover the sea, run barefoot through the grass, and perhaps sit at the kitchen table eating strawberries with considerably more enthusiasm than proper table manners would normally allow.

I've already started imagining little outings and things we could do together. Apparently, it's difficult to completely abandon the urge to organize enjoyable activities.

But this time, I'm going to try to remember Alfie's grandmother and her rather wise approach to life. That not every free moment needs to be filled with something special, and that sometimes simply being together is more than enough.

I don't have to organize the entire vacation, remember every water bottle, or make sure everyone has clean swimsuits.

I get to be part of it anyway.

In a new way, from a different place within the family.

And perhaps that's where I finally begin to understand how I really feel about those eighteen summers.

Because yes, I've had my eighteen summers with my children when they were little. Or perhaps thirteen, if we're being realistic.

And I would love to experience a few of them again, even if only for an afternoon. Not to do anything differently or create more memories, but simply to be there for a little while. Right in the middle of all those perfectly ordinary moments I didn't understand were so precious while they were happening.

I'd even be willing to pack that beach bag again.

Although I know we'd probably forget the sunscreen.

But I wouldn't want to give up what we have now, either.

I love that my children are adults. I love the people they've become and the fact that I still get to be part of their lives. And I love that our family continues to grow and change in ways I could never have imagined back when we were packing the car for yet another summer vacation.

Perhaps that's also why I think we should be a little careful about counting down our lives while we're still busy living them. Because if we're constantly thinking about how many summers we have left, we risk missing the one we're actually in.

And that would be a shame, wouldn't it?

So I'm not going to count any more summers.

I'm just going to keep living them, together with the people I love, in whatever way life happens to unfold.

And if it rains for three weeks straight, at least I know IKEA is still there.