A Love Letter to the Parents in the Thick of It
There are blueberries stuck to the floor and a rogue sock in the fridge. The house smells like feet, and my truck smells worse. I stepped on something questionable this morning and decided I didn’t have the energy to find out what it was. Someone left the fridge open again. Someone else is arguing about why ice cream makes a valid breakfast. (Honestly? It might’ve been me.)
Summer has this way of pressing in from all sides; it’s loud and sticky, full of forgotten cups, half-finished crafts, and snack wrappers tucked in places I swear I’ve already cleaned. The day is wide but somehow feels blurry. I’m constantly swinging between “what a gift this time is” and “how is it only 10:42 AM?”
And the mess is never-ending. The kitchen gets cleaned, and I come back 20 minutes later to a trail of cracker crumbs and someone’s art project made from wet toilet paper and glitter. Laundry is eternal. The fridge is always one snack away from empty. There are apple cores in places they shouldn't be and water bottles with mystery liquids left in the back seat of the truck.
But here’s the thing I’m learning, slowly, and with a lot of undoing:
I can walk through it.
I can live in it.
Because it’s over too damn quick.
My babies aren’t babies anymore. We’re talking about middle school, high school, college, and buying cars. They’re out there imagining their future lives, dorm rooms, road trips, graduation parties, and while I’m helping with the grown-up details, I find myself drifting back. Not in a sad way, just a real way. I remember the weight of them on my hip, the way their heads used to fit perfectly in the crook of my neck. The mornings when I was so tired I could barely function, but they still needed breakfast love, and 18 more things I could ramble off.
Back then, I was trying to make it to nap time without crying. I was measuring the day in how many cups of coffee I had and whether anyone pooped in the tub again. I was exhausted in a way that felt like it might be permanent. And I loved them fiercely, but I couldn’t always feel it through the noise.
I didn’t know how to slow down. I didn’t know that one day I’d miss the days when no one could find their other shoe, and everyone needed a hug at once. I didn’t know how fast it would all shift.
Now I have Logan. My grand finale. My chance to breathe a little deeper. Just one little body to wrangle this time. One sticky hand in mine. And even though the days still have their chaos, he’s two, after all, I get to sit in it in a way I didn’t before. I get to watch. I get to see it. And I get to mother with a different kind of presence.
Not because I’ve finally figured it out. But I now know that these are the good old days.
Not in a cheesy, inspirational sign way. But in a way where I can feel the ache of time moving even while I’m still in the moment.
These are the days when we pack peanut butter sandwiches and eat them on the front steps. When sticky hands tug on our shirts, endless questions fill the air. When the rhythm of life is dictated by snack time, nap time, and the number of diapers remaining.
These are the days when someone needs you every five seconds, and then suddenly, they don’t.
And that shift sneaks up on you. First, they can pour their juice. Then they don’t need help buckling in. Then they’re taller than you, sleeping in, texting their friends, and asking to borrow the truck.
So if your house is loud, and your floor is sticky, and you feel like you’ve lost track of yourself in the constant giving, welcome. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re in the thick of something important. Something sacred, even if it’s wearing mismatched socks and asking you what happens if you swallow a LEGO.
We may not always have the capacity to soak it in the way we want to. That’s okay. You don’t have to savor every moment to be grateful for the life you’re building. You have to keep showing up just the way you are.
We’re not trying to “enjoy every second.” We’re just trying to notice the ones we can.
The little glimmers. The funny moments. The good part is hidden inside the hard.
So here’s to the parents carrying it all, the snacks, the schedules, the guilt, the joy, the worry, the wonder. Here’s to the quiet middle-of-the-night moments when you finally get a second to breathe, only to lie awake scrolling through old baby pictures.
Here’s to us. The exhausted, tender, strong, imperfect humans, raising other humans the best way we know how.
This might not be the part we scrapbook because who has the time? But when we look back years from now, I have a feeling we’ll say: “Man… those were the good old days.”