Somehow the long of summer has melted fast like a bright red Popsicle abandoned in the sun.
The sweet, refreshing treat morphed into a sticky, concrete-staining puddle.
Somehow the adventure-seeking, marshmallow-roasting days of summer have faded like
smoke trails after Fourth of July fireworks. Rainbow bursts of color and light an instant image
turned faint memory. The sky left muddied gray.
In seven days my boys start back to school.
And I feel like I failed summer.Yes, I said boys with an “s” which means plural. I’m launching the second born piece of my heart
and can hardly believe that in one short week I’ll turn the corner from Mom-Home-with-Lots-
of-Littles to Mom-of-School-Age-Kids and the bulk of my days will be spent with just my Jude.
So this hallmark summer closing a hallmark season was suppose to be Hallmark perfect. The
movie reels played in my mind with a Celtic/Taylor Swift/Jack Johnson soundtrack. (I have a
vibrant imagination of what an outdoorsy/fun/laid back summer sounds like.)
The scenes flashed with cinematic flair from boys curled in cozy library nooks pouring ove
r books to new swimmers stroking long and confident across a glimmering pool. I pictured
productive mornings at the dining room table practicing letters followed by happy park play
dates reconnecting with old friends.
I say “Hallmark perfect” in jest because if you know me you know I’m actually all about the real,
gritty mess of motherhood, which is always full of beauty but rarely picturesque. I honestly
don’t think I set my expectations too high or my hopes too lofty. But I did set a few key
Nothing on that list got done.My kids did not learn how to swim.
They did not complete a summer reading program at the library. (Okay, for the sake of full
disclosure, let’s go the distance and confess that we actually did not even step foot in a library.
Not. One. Time.)
We did not work on proper letter formation or reinforce the new reading skills my oldest
learned in kindergarten.
I don’t recall deep cleaning a single thing and that big basket full of who-knows-what on the side
of my bed was not properly dealt with but rather strategically shifted week after week so as not
to be tripped over or viewed through a door crack when company came to visit.
And there’s a long list of friends I genuinely wanted to connect with, to share hearts over iced
coffee while watching tiny tanned limbs flail through backyard sprinklers—but good intentions
fell short without timely initiation.
As I look back on these fast-flying summer months I see the glare of not enough learning,
cleaning, connecting, or reading, and too much glowing TV, blasting AC, yelling, rebelling, and
close-quarter dwelling.
The reflection makes me feel pretty much defeated.
Our whole summer withered like that
sad red Popsicle. Wasted away before fulfilling its full potential.
But before I drown in a sticky pool of red dye self pity, I remember the power of
perspective.
I open my journal and read through hundreds of God gifts scribbled down as
thanks. I scroll through my camera roll and see countless moments meaningful enough to
capture in pixels.
And I remember this:
Focusing on my shortcomings crowds out
memories of all the blessings.
And oh, friends, there were so many blessings.
Not fancy or expensive. Simple blessings so ordinary I almost forgot.
Like painting rocks.
One glorious morning my little explorers set out on a backyard expedition to uncover earthen
treasure. We set up a washing station to carefully clean their stone discoveries. Once the
earthen beauties were baked dry by the summer sun, we laid paper bags over cracked concrete
—high-tech painting stations. And budding artists in superman pajamas were joy-full to create.
Forgotten moments now remembered. Savored. Wouldn’t dare to trade.
I keep on mind-and-photo scrolling, determined to recall what other buried blessings
made up our summer days and nights.
Soon the memories come streaming back…
Lego building extravaganzas that covered the dining room table for days. Little boys’
imaginations soaring free and wild. Plastic masterpieces zooming through space, shooting
galactic bad guys. Blessing.
Back porch dinners, all five of us crowding around one tiny bistro table. Watermelon juice
dripping from lips. Noah slipping from his chair to catch a cricket meal for Baxter, his backyard-
caught pet lizard. Blessing.
Evening walks instead of early bedtimes. Savoring a soft summer breeze. Leaves catching
golden light. Boyhood treasures—rubberbands and bottle caps—discovered at every turn.
Blessing.
Summer storms breaking through the heat. Boys catching raindrops on outstretched tongues.
Digging race tracks in freshly made mud. Watching the parched land drink in the unexpected
blessing.
Homemade pizza making. Little hands gripping tight the mighty rolling pin, pushing hard and
long to make dough stretch long and thin. Excited fingers sprinkling cheese, carefully placing
pineapple pieces, sneaking bites when nobody was thought to be looking. Three mini chefs in
floured aprons watching their creations cook through one smeared oven window. Blessing.
And how did I discount the three mountain days of our first family-of-five tent camping
adventure?
S’mores around a glowing fire. Hunting for lizards with Daddy’s handmade lassos.
Looking up and crouching down—God’s fingerprints at every turn. Blessings abound.
Sure we were massacred by mosquitoes, two kids got a bloody nose, and the other puked
on the windy road home. But the trip was not a failure.
Not by a long shot.
Could I dare say the same thing about summer?
Because dare I not forget the gazillion grains of sand dug and molded into castles, the 487
rounds of Candy Land played, or 98 hours of VBS songs sung. Dare I not minimize the countless
stories read, three brothers crowded on one bed. Or family movie nights and french toast
dinners. Brothers battling in bedroom soccer (stuffed penguin as the ball), Daddy-Ref with the
scoreboard app teaching sons to be good losers and winners.
Could I have done summer better? Absolutely.
But if I were reading this recap on your blog or listening to you retell it in a coffee shop corner
on a sacred friend date, I would never say you failed.
I would say you showed up, lived real, loved well, did your
best or at least good enough.
And that is good. That is enough.So I’ll muster the courage to whisper the same words to myself.
I’ll take stock of each blessing. Count every gift. Not to convince myself that I measure up as a
mom. But to remember that God was with us. In us.
Remember that summer doesn’t come with a pass/fail grade. It isn’t judged on a rubric of
productivity or graded on a bell curve of comparison to all the Facebook Jones’s.
Summer is a season. A time to break. To breathe.
To let little boys jump like ninjas through wormy sprinklers.