Kid Summer

The first summer as an independent, working adult was an adjustment. 

There I was, sitting at my desk, looking longingly outside at the beautiful blue sky, just beyond the sealed window of our government office space. I was lucky to sit within view of a window, but knowing it didn’t open was a cruel joke.

Each morning, I could hardly count down the minutes until lunch, when I would walk outside the limestone walls of our office building, past the security barriers and into the little triangle of garden just in the shadow of the US Capitol. 

Part of this angst was a product of my upbringing. As native midwesterner, I grew up believing summer was sacred— indeed more than a season, but a way of life set apart from the rest of the year. Winter was long, snowy and freezing, of course, but the long dark that accompanied the cold was way worse. Every hue reduced to grayscale, as if we were living in a black and white movie for months. 

Sure, fall could be lovely and spring a relief, but neither was a sure thing. Snow on Halloween was to be expected. Spring was a tease, dangling the promise of warmth, but rewarding with flurries in April, and sometimes May. Appropriately, both seasons mark change, not rest. They bring transition, the start of something or the end of it.

But summer was different. A reprieve.

In my childhood, summer meant long days spent outside, reading outside, eating outside, working in the yard outside, walks after dinner outside. Whatever it was— it was done outside. 

Summer was not only about the weather, but about the space to just be kids all day, every day for a little while— no classes or teachers or homework. We waited all year for these few precious months. We took every opportunity to treasure them. 

It would not last, of course. And I should have known, as there is one picture in my memory that doesn’t fit with the rest.

On those perfect summer days, late in the afternoon, my dad would return home after his long commute from work in the city, his suit jacket and tie already removed. Before taking the time to change clothes, he would go straight to the backyard, throwing baseballs and hitting golf balls with my brothers, or checking on this or that yard project. It felt silly and out of place, leather work loafers in the lush green grass. I wondered why he didn’t just go upstairs to get changed first. 

I had little concept then, of what it was like to push through a long day of work, with 75 and sunny beckoning you. Or what it meant to keep on the same schedule twelve months a year when everyone else back at home downshifting gears. There just wasn’t time to go change your shoes, with a few hours of perfection left in the day.

The rhythms we take for granted in childhood aren’t forever. We all discover this fact at some point in our lives, and I was lucky enough to enjoy them as long as I did. Because ten years later, there I was at my desk, with my own responsibilities and bills and work attire. 

I grew up and got an office job, only to discover summer had the nerve to continue on without me. But, after enduring many Junes and Julys behind a desk— here I am, with a second chance for kid summer. 

My son wants to be outside from the moment he wakes, and I, his mother and daily playmate, am all too happy to oblige. 

This year, fully toddler and teetering on childhood, he is experimenting with independence, preferring to ride his bike to the park— no strollers please. We notice the weather, and celebrate with joy each morning that the sun shines. We garden and water our flowers together. We dig in the dirt, collect rocks. (I find rocks everywhere— carseat, bathroom, shorts, jackets, any pocket is a rock pocket.)

What’s more, my son will also experience the distinct privilege of summer in the Midwest. Two years ago, after wandering in the wilderness that is the American South and Northeast, our family relocated to “Chicagoland.” We live in a lovely suburban town. Our neighborhood soundtrack is that of kids biking, playing and selling lemonade from their corner stand.

Idyllic to be sure, but I am surprised that this, too, is an adjustment. Not just the rocks that make their way into my house, but the physicality of our days. Two parks in one day? Why not. We hit up every splash pad within a five mile radius, and inhale snacks on the way home (both of us). Sticky, sweaty, or wet. These are my only three options. 

Looking down at my watch, I hardly believe that this tan-looking limb belonged to me. In the past, only a tropical beach vacation would achieve this color, but all it takes now is a few weeks of kid summer.

I collapse into bed each evening. It would be easy to complain, to focus on all that I am giving— my time, my energy, myself. But maybe because I’ve been a grown up for quite a while now, the magic of this season is so enchanting. Such a contrast. Such a gift. I receive much more than I give.

And all of this is why I am so intent on protecting it. From what? In my case, worry. Summer provides myriad opportunities. The floors— how are they always muddy? Our schedule— should I sign us up for more activities, or fewer? My parenting—am I doing enough, teaching enough, engaging enough? The park— is he safe to be climbing up there, or digging in that?

But in this select situation, I have been granted a small measure of wisdom. There are many days that I wonder with gratitude that this is my life, that I get to experience all of this again— this time, with him. I get to participate in the making of another kid summer. 

With this perspective, I know it all ends too quickly. Maybe in eighteen years, when life no longer follows the predictability of the school calendar, but probably sooner when summer jobs, sports tournaments, friends or a driving license steals time away. So how do I make the most? 

When considered this way— so fleeting, so short— it easily becomes too much to bear. Then I remember the things that have stayed with me all this time are so simple, so sweet. And I see them again, already, played out with my own son. The scream of glee in the sprinkler. The way ice cream melts down his face and hand and shirt, and across his gigantic smile. The way we play with dad in the backyard, just home from work, until hunger or exhaustion drives us inside. The way chicken tastes better off the grill, eaten on the porch from paper plates.

Kid summer is happening right in front of me, and I barely have to do anything except let it unfold. Just make the space for it. It’s uncomplicated, and thank God. In a world that seems to get more complex every day— what a relief to allow some things to stay precious and untouched. This is easier than it sounds, I know, as each year life rushes in with a bit more demand. But every decision to go slow, linger, choose the simple, will be worth it.

I hold on to this conviction because there may just come a day when my son will be looking up from his own computer, and out another sealed window at a bright blue sky and be yearning for fresh air. In that moment, all I can hope is that these memories sustain him, move him, keep him, and may even be passed along to his own child one day, in the gift of another kid summer.