Time is once again playing its familiar trick—whizzing by even as some days feel interminably long. It’s not just the chaotic back-to-school rush or looming deadlines at work; it’s the way my daughter Zoe’s hair flutters in the breeze, her expressive eyebrows dancing as she declares, “That’s just strange!”—quickly glancing around to ensure we all appreciate her insight. Then there’s Max, quietly lost in his own world of emotions, video games, and daydreams. And let’s not forget Mia, thrashing about in her sleep, limbs stretching far beyond her pajamas, her hair wild and tousled, revealing new contours of her young face.
I find myself resisting the notion that some chapters of our lives are already written, and that certain paths I vowed never to tread have become unavoidable. More than anything, I long for a sense of control—mornings where I know exactly what lunches to pack, how to dress for the day, and what preparations I need for various activities. Yet, the more I strive for calm certainty, the more my days unravel into a chaotic web of commitments. A simple “yes” to one event often leads to a regrettable “no” for another.
“Wait, you won’t be there for my belt ceremony?” Mia asks, her face falling.
“No, I’ll definitely be there for Saturday’s testing when you earn it, but I might not make it back for the actual ceremony on Monday.” I respond, my voice steady, but inside, I’m yearning to be present for both moments. How did I lose control of my own life?
Glancing at my calendar, I see a riot of purple commitments spilling over the boxes—slashes here and there, all blending together. There’s no reward for being busy, yet trimming down my schedule feels like an insurmountable challenge.
Last weekend, in one of the few free weekends we have left this year, we embarked on a trip to Boston. We decided on a quick overnight stay, but with the kids prone to carsickness, I had to plan our return for noon the next day—making for a four-hour drive each way in under 24 hours.
I booked a hotel thirty minutes outside the city, stocked up on Bonine and Dramamine, and packed snacks, all while trying to suppress my frustration about yet another tightly scheduled day that I had helped orchestrate. In the backseat, the kids buzzed with excitement.
“Will we see skyscrapers?”
“Can we eat out?”
“Is there a pool at the hotel?”
Their rapid-fire questions lulled me into a daze: “Yes, uh-huh, maybe, not sure. But we’ll have an adventure.” I leaned into my role as the calm, reassuring parent, a familiar instinct that blends my personal life with my professional drive to please.
As we hit the road, I turned on a movie for the kids, who leaned against each other, legs intertwined. I gazed out the window, memories of my own childhood road trips flooding back—moments with loved ones, bittersweet memories that tugged at my heart. I wondered what my kids would remember about this trip. Would it be my grumbles about hotel costs? Their dad’s thrill at seeing the boats race? Or perhaps our matching shirts? Just then, Max tilted his head and mouthed, “You know I love you, right?” I stifled a laugh—or was it a sob? Such deep love runs between us, an awareness of both joy and pain.
“Yes, I do, my sweet boy,” I replied.
The trip turned into a whirlwind of laughter and unexpected joy. I let go of my worries about what they might remember and embraced the adventure unfolding before us. The hotel indeed had a pool, along with a lifeguard we would forever remember. As we packed up to leave, the kids buzzed with excitement, already reminiscing about spotting the first glimpse of Boston.
On our way home through New Hampshire and Vermont—along a much prettier, straighter route—we stopped at a charming café for sandwiches and soup. The kids marveled at the view of the falls, and surprisingly, there were no complaints about their food. Instead, we shared laughter and conversation, free from high chairs or bibs—just our family enjoying a moment together amidst the chaos.
When we arrived at the car, the kids wanted to climb a retaining wall. Normally I would have rushed them along, but this time we let them explore. Max called out, “Dad, catch me in the air!” My husband readied the camera, while I recalled a time when catching her was literal—arms outstretched, hearts racing. I realized we don’t catch her in that way anymore, and though it stung, it was also a beautiful reminder of how we’ve taught her to catch herself.
“Did you see me?” she asked, breathless after her leap. It’s okay, even if it still hurts, because we did catch it in our own way, and we are raising her to stand strong on her own.
The swirl of memories, hopes, and emotions interconnected in my heart reminded me of one simple truth: It isn’t about how things are that matters; the essence of it all is simply that we are here together.
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In summary, amidst the chaos of life and parenting, it’s the moments we create together that truly matter, reminding us of the love and connection that bind us.