18 Summers... Sigh...

Let me introduce you to something I like to call "A Load of Crap":

The post was called "18 Summers. How many do yours have left?"

Sorry, www.thenester.com, but I'm picking a fight. Not just with you. See my "PS" at the end. Cool pic, though.

Early this past June, the author at thenester.com wrote a short but sweet blog outlining the fact that us parents only have "18 summers" with our daughters and sons and, "they go fast". Immediately I told John about it, driven by anxiety, wondering how I would make The Caterpillar's summer #1 PERFECT.

A tear-jerking concept, I was afraid of being this woman: the summer waster who commented on this frightening post:

CUE HYPERVENTILATION

Now let me ask you this question. I've made a cute little picture for it and everything, to match my Nester friend...

18 of those, too.

What about winter? Christmas, I ask you? How about that ugly month of February? And spring, what about spring? Ducks and Canadian geese and slush pants?

We only get 18 of everything - all to ourselves, that is. Or, if you are like my parents or John's, you get about 15 because we're slightly too independent for 18 (we spent our summers at camp). Maybe we get less. I pray to God we don't, I pray to God we get 18 of everything with The Caterpillar, but I also pray we get more - that we raise our kids to want to come back in the summer with their kids.

But here's the problem with the "18 Summers" concept: summer's HOT and MUGGY and brings on HEAT RASH and the nights are LONG and our kids are usually naked. When we confront ourselves with "oh no, only 18 summers!", we think we need to fill them entirely with zoo trips and sprinkler escapades and we really get down on ourselves when we just kind of lie on the carpet and play with toys and cry 'cause we're exhausted. Or 'cause our boobies hurt and breastfeeding is really not so simple. The anxiety sets in that we, as "Jenny B." said, wasted it.

And if we think in terms of "only 18 Christmases!", we start hiring Santa impersonators (or the real thing, if you can afford it and he's not too busy) and filling the tree with too many gifts and striving for perfection. We get scared that we're not doing our very best and - gulp - our 18 summers, and then 17 and 16, and eventually 9, then 7, then 4, then 1... were just not good enough. Did we make the last 18 years memorable and perfect?

I think that it's important to understand the fragility of our lives in general: as parents, as people, we only get to do this once and we should prioritize the fact that time is short for all of us. Make every single day as awesome as possible. Do your best. Whatever that is. But to make this a source of anxiety and a countdown is entirely missing the point.

A mother once told me that her despite her many attempts to create an amazing & memorable childhood for her girls, her daughter's significant childhood memory (the one that really stood out) was that one time when she fell off the pool ladder onto the deck, cracked her head open, bled, screamed and said mom (this is no lie) burst out laughing knowing her daughter was & would be just fine.

It's the little things, and sometimes just the every day real things, that make those 18 years memorable. Not the dozens of trips to the zoo / Wonderland / Great Wolf Lodge, although those are pretty cool once in a while too (and I'm stoked for them).

So, debunking the pile of crap that we only have 18 summers & you should monitor them carefully and perfectly, here's a little nugget of truth: we have 18 summers with our kids (maybe less, hopefully more), and no sister, you didn't blow this one. You didn't waste it. Neither did I, lying on the carpet and playing with toys.

(PS: Don't worry, The Nester, you're not alone - it's just that your post was the one to sit with me. Disney makes a big fuss about the 18 summers we have (hmmmm...), as does this blog and this one and this one and this one and... well, you get the idea.)