You’ve heard it, I’ve heard it—probably while aimlessly scrolling social media instead of tending to that overflowing laundry pile.
“You only get 18 summers with your kids. Make the most of them.”
Every time I see it, I feel my blood pressure tick up just a smidge. Not because I don’t love my kids. I do—fiercely. My girls are now 5 and 7, and we are into those sweet middle years where I’m not changing diapers or living by nap times, but not quite to the pre-teen drama that I know will be awaiting me with equal parts eye rolls and emotional thunderstorms. I love my two girls more than new books and iced coffee combined. But this whole “18 summers” line? It feels like the mom version of a used car salesman trying to guilt you into upgrading your parenting package.
Let’s be clear: I’m a teacher. That means summer is the one time I get to not live by a schedule. I don’t have to chug coffee while rushing through the school drop-off line, then get to work in time for a PLC meeting. I get to breathe. I get to be—not just the mom holding it together with dry shampoo and wishful thinking, but the mom who has the time to say yes to pool day marathons, day trips to visit out-of-town friends, and spontaneous library runs.
Summer me is the mom who lets bedtime be a loose suggestion. She packs popsicles as pool snacks and has the confidence of someone who might read her own book while her kids play together peacefully. Summer me wears flip flops and big sunglasses and makes pancakes on a Monday just because. She’s unbothered by mismatched socks and lets the kids eat watermelon on the deck like little sticky monsters.
You know what summer me is not? Just childcare.
I am not a placeholder between school years. Sure, we do fun things, but I’m not here to schedule every second into magical core memory material. I’m not Pinteresting daily themed activities because a reel told me my kids are going to leave me in 11 summers, and I better make this one count or live with eternal regret.
I’m here to be the best version of myself—laid back, sun-kissed, and finally breathing after 185 days of managing everyone else’s chaos.
And you know what? My girls love this version of me. They don’t need a jam-packed itinerary. They need slow mornings and cereal picnics on the living room floor. They need a mom who has the energy to laugh at knock-knock jokes and play Uno without mentally reviewing IEPs.
So no, I’m not here for the “18 summers” panic. I’m here for quality over guilt. For presence over pressure. And honestly, if I play my cards right, my girls might want to spend their 19th, 20th, or even 30th summers doing the same—hanging out on a porch, drinking lemonade, and laughing with their mom.
Because being a summer mom isn’t about counting down the years. It’s about soaking in the freckles, the giggles, the lazy joy of just being.
And if that’s not enough… well, maybe the internet can just calm down a little.
