We’re at the amusement park, and I’m encountering an unfamiliar feeling that’s surprisingly unsettling. My kids no longer want to engage with me, and I’m feeling a bit down about it. If you’re reading this while your 4-year-old pleads for yet another round of their favorite game, or if you’ve just finished constructing your tenth LEGO masterpiece this week, I can understand if your sympathy is low right now. It seems like just yesterday I was in the thick of it, losing my voice from hours of playing pirates and getting trapped in closets, wishing for some peace before they pulled me out of “captivity.” I totally get it. Regardless of how much I adore my kids, and believe me, I truly love the playtime, it can wear you out.
That’s why it’s all the more surprising to me that I’m feeling so down. As soon as we arrive, the boys excitedly suggest we tackle “Adventure Falls” together. We scream in joy as we plunge down, with my husband capturing our moments from the sidelines. Once we reach the bottom, I dash after them as they race back for more, but just as we start climbing the stairs, Caleb turns to me and says, “Mom, we can go alone this time.”
“Oh, okay! See you at the bottom,” I reply, forcing a smile as I head back to my husband. He laughs and tries to reassure me, “Don’t worry, I’ll join you!”
“But you’re not fun!” I pout, and I notice my comment stings a bit. “I mean, at the park! You don’t like the slides!”
I find myself gliding down a slide alone, letting out a weak “whooo,” but my heart isn’t in it. I try again, “whooo.”
The irony of this situation isn’t lost on me. Friends had told me this day would come, and I listened with the same enthusiasm a high school student has regarding college life. The freedom at amusement parks is supposed to be liberating; a time when your kids become a bit more independent, allowing you to relax with a drink or a book while they explore. But honestly, it feels a bit like yearning to graduate only to realize adult life comes with bills, healthcare, and 40-hour workweeks.
I sit with my husband for a while, debating whether “fit grandpa” is a result of hard work or just good genes. When I check on the kids again, I find they’ve made new friends in the lazy river, happily enjoying their time while Caleb forms a heart shape with his hands to signal he’s smitten. How sweet. I return to my husband, pondering why I was so eager for a drink by the pool. I don’t even drink much, especially during the day, and dry hair at the pool? That’s never been my idea of fun.
Soon, we leave the waterpark, and the boys are eager to try the MagiQuest game. This wild adventure requires running up and down multiple floors, waving wands at various objects that light up and provide clues. It can feel a bit like a surreal dream. No rational parent would willingly follow their children on this quest.
“Just relax here by the fire, Mom. We’re all good!”
Perfect! Alone time! My husband takes a nap back in the room, and I settle by the fire with my book, enjoying some people-watching. I spot a little girl in cowboy boots and a polka-dot bikini dancing joyfully while her mom looks tired, and I can sympathize. It’s a tough gig.
An hour later, my boys return, pleading to go to the arcade. This kid-friendly casino is where you spend a fortune just to earn a few tickets for candy. I despise the kid casino.
“Just fill our cards, Mom. You can wait outside!”
I find a table nearby, enjoying ice cream while scrolling through social media and checking on them occasionally. I should be thrilled. I hate the endless elevator rides for MagiQuest, and the arcade has never been my thing. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling of sadness creeping in. I’m puzzled and a bit frustrated with myself for feeling this way. It contradicts the narrative I tell myself about being a mom who cherishes every growth stage and moment. I want to believe that every chapter of parenting is filled with excitement and potential, that having healthy children moving to the next stage shouldn’t evoke sadness.
I shudder when I hear parents claim their favorite book is “I’ll Love You Forever.” The scene where a mother sneaks into her grown son’s window to rock him to sleep feels overly intense and suffocating.
As I dry my hair before dinner, I feel that familiar ache again. I want to dismiss it, but my heart urges me to acknowledge it. This isn’t the gut-wrenching sadness of losing someone. It’s a quiet longing, a reminder of time passing. I text my mom to check on our elderly dog, who is diabetic and blind. She’s nearing the end, and I hate facing it. Maybe that’s contributing to my mood. Perhaps it’s the recent loss of my husband’s childhood friend, a neighbor we’ve known for nearly two decades. Or maybe I’m genuinely saddened by my kids’ newfound independence. Whatever the reason, I’ve learned from life that it’s a mix of emotions—beauty, joy, and sorrow. Life’s richness comes from embracing all these feelings; to reject the uncomfortable is to deny the full experience of living.
I sit on a lounge chair, watching a little girl with bright red hair joyfully splashing in the water. Her mother looks exasperated, and I can relate. Every time the mom turns away, the little one makes a break for it, landing on her behind and crying only to start again.
My boys run over, grabbing my hand, urging me to join them in the hot tub. We jump in, and Caleb climbs into my lap. I cradle him, joking, “My little baby!”
Here I am, holding my fourth grader who is nearly my height. “I’ll love you forever…” I think, as we realize the pool is about to close. “Didn’t we just get here?”
Time truly is a curious thing. But we still have a few moments left, and I intend to savor every second.
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In summary, while I find myself in a transitional phase of parenting—where independence grows and playtime seems to dwindle—I grapple with feelings of sadness and nostalgia. It’s a bittersweet experience that reminds me that life encompasses all emotions, and it’s essential to embrace them fully.