Other Moms Seem to Make Summer Look Magical

Every year, somewhere around the middle of July, I become convinced I’ve forgotten how to parent.

The novelty of summer has worn off. The pool has lost its magic. The snacks I bought on Monday are gone by Wednesday. My house somehow looks like a tornado came through before breakfast, and I swear I’ve answered, “Can I have a snack?” 17 times before 10 a.m.

By this point, my patience is hanging on by a thread.

And if I’m honest, that’s usually when the guilt starts whispering.

Why are you so irritated?

Why can’t you just enjoy this?

Other moms seem to make summer look magical.

I used to think summer was simply bringing out the worst in me.

Now I think it was revealing the parts of me that still needed healing.

Because motherhood has a funny way of holding up a mirror.

I can usually stay regulated when life is predictable. During the school year, there are routines, bedtimes, teachers, and quiet moments while my son is in class. There are breaks built into the day.

Summer offers none of that.

It’s loud.

It’s messy.

It’s constant.

And suddenly every unfinished piece of myself comes rushing to the surface.

I realized that most of the moments I was losing my patience had very little to do with my son.

They had everything to do with me.

Why did clutter make my chest tighten?

Why did constant interruptions make me snap?

Why did hearing “Mom!” for the hundredth time feel like nails on a chalkboard?

Why did I feel like I was failing if the day didn’t look productive?

Those weren’t parenting questions.

They were healing questions.

Some of them traced back to the pressure I grew up feeling to always be productive.

Some came from believing a “good mom” should always be patient.

Some came from years of telling myself that asking for a break meant I wasn’t strong enough.

My son wasn’t creating those wounds.

He was unknowingly shining a flashlight on them.

That realization changed everything.

Not overnight.

I still lose my patience.

I still have moments where I need to walk into the bathroom, close the door for sixty seconds, and remind myself that no one is in danger because the living room is covered in Legos.

I still have days when I apologize.

Actually…I apologize a lot.

But now, instead of asking, “What’s wrong with my child?” or even “What’s wrong with me?” I ask a different question.

What is this moment trying to teach me?

Sometimes it’s teaching me that I’m overstimulated.

Sometimes it’s reminding me I haven’t taken care of myself in days.

Sometimes it’s showing me an old belief I didn’t even realize I was carrying.

Motherhood has become less about raising a child and more about raising my awareness.

And maybe that’s the part nobody tells us before we become moms.

Our children don’t just grow.

We do too.

Not because we’re trying to become perfect.

But because these tiny humans have an incredible way of exposing every place we’ve been pretending we’re fine.

Especially during the long, hot days of summer.

Ironically, the moments I’m proudest of aren’t the perfectly planned adventures or Pinterest-worthy afternoons.

They’re the moments after I’ve messed up.

The moments when I sit beside my son and say, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t the mom I wanted to be.”

The moments when I choose repair over pretending it didn’t happen.

Because maybe that’s the real work of motherhood.

Not creating a childhood free from mistakes.

But creating one where our children watch us own them.

Where they learn that emotions aren’t something to fear.

Where they see that growth doesn’t stop when we become adults.

This summer has been loud.

It’s been chaotic.

It’s been overstimulating.

It’s also reminded me that healing rarely happens in quiet, picture-perfect moments.

Sometimes it happens while you’re stepping over wet towels, making another peanut butter sandwich, and taking one deep breath before answering, “Mom?” for the hundred-and-first time.

And maybe that’s enough.

Maybe surviving another summer isn’t the goal after all.

Maybe becoming a little more aware, a little more compassionate with ourselves, and a little quicker to repair is the real victory.

No one told me motherhood would ask me to heal myself.

I’m beginning to think that was the assignment all along.