Fireflies played hide-and-seek at the edge of the woods as my three best friends and I prepared to spend the night in a small blue tent under the stars. It was late August, and we were celebrating my 12th birthday at my house in the suburbs of Philadelphia, where cornfields and dairy farms surrounded hilly residential roads like mine.
A photo from that night shows four smiling, sunburned faces glowing in the lantern light. I have bangs and braces, and I’m sporting denim overalls with a fuchsia T-shirt, matching pink socks, and white Keds. My friends and I were thrilled to be camping out “all by ourselves” (a stone’s throw from my parents’ open window).
Earlier that evening, after a hike through the woods, each one of us had been inexplicably pelted with something like warm raindrops, despite clear skies. As we tried to puzzle our way through the mystery, my mom casually mentioned the little brown bats fluttering overhead, knowing the slightest insinuation would be enough.
“Ugh, it’s bat pee!” we screamed, running for cover. I still laugh when I think about discovering my dad’s dark silhouette in the upstairs window. He always was a great shot with a water pistol. The warm water really clinched the deal.
Looking back on a childhood full of happy summer memories, that August night stands out as one of the most joyful. It wasn’t elaborate or expensive. It would not have been Instagram-worthy. And the best parts were unplanned.
Why, then, do I find myself fighting the urge to meticulously craft an unforgettable summer for my own children? And why is my focus so often diverted to travel websites, theme-park reels, and listicles like “137 Ways to Have an EPIC Summer with Your Kids”?
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I’ve been a Christian my whole life. I know that nothing in this world will ultimately satisfy me or my children. But I’m continually sidetracked by a desire to be their maker of memories and facilitator of fun—as if my God-given title of mother isn’t enough.
A Motherly article originally published in 2018 offers some insight into the parenting zeitgeist. The headline and deck read, “We only have 18 summers together with our kids. But I’m determined to make the most of it.” A young mom describes how her heart sank when she realized that the clock is ticking. She resolves to squeeze in as much summer fun as possible before her toddler grows up.
An accompanying Facebook video has received millions of views. It’s one of countless “18 summers” posts that pop up every year. At their best, these posts are meant to encourage parents to savor their little ones’ childhood. At their worst, they prey on our emotions, inciting guilt, anxiety, and a willingness to click on whatever product or experience promises to assuage the panic. If you’re thinking, Get off social media, I’m with you. But you don’t have to be on Instagram to feel the pressure. It’s in the air.
I stood next to the concrete sandbox last week, chatting with a group of moms while my toddler coated herself in dirty Brooklyn playground sand. One friend told me she dreads the ubiquitous question “What are you doing this summer?” She worries she hasn’t planned enough activities for her kids. She’s not alone.
Many parents and children are battling anxiety already. For most of us, the idea of counting summers is just one more unwelcome source of pressure. It would be easy to reject the whole concept, to dismiss it as another example of the monetization of childhood.
At the same time, I think the “18 summers” narrative can go deeper than dollar signs. “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom,” Psalm 90:12 tells us. Perhaps adding up summers is a way of acknowledging not just the brevity of childhood but also the impermanence of our own lives. For followers of Christ, this can unleash a sense of freedom where our culture sees fear.
As I pondered the nine summers I’ve experienced with my son and the three I’ve had with my daughter, a few takeaways surfaced. I hope to tuck them away in my travel bag between the sunscreen and bug spray as my family prepares for another season of long, hot days and short, muggy nights.
First, I can’t plan my way to peace. And believe me, I’ve tried.
Seven years ago, when my husband and I left the suburbs of Charlotte to move to New York City with our two-year-old, I devoured blog posts with curated lists of kid-friendly parks, cafés, and museums. Soon I was dragging our jogging stroller down steep flights of subway stairs and pushing our son across the five boroughs from Monday to Friday.
At the time, I wouldn’t have admitted that I was lonely. Unsure of myself as a new parent in an intimidating city, I responded by filling every minute with activity. Meanwhile, my connection with God faded into the background like the hazy Manhattan skyline. Sure, we went to church each Sunday, but when Monday arrived, the daily grind of freelance work, potty training, and chasing the perfect outing crowded my waking hours.
I researched, planned, and scheduled. Tomorrow I will go to the zoo, carry a backpack full of 3.2-ounce applesauce pouches, and make wonderful memories with my kid. Enter the Book of James: “Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes” (4:14).
These days, I enjoy large swaths of unscheduled, unhurried time with my kids. I still love a good outing, but I’m far more likely to choose rest over exhaustion.
A certain amount of summertime planning is of course necessary. My husband and I are both juggling careers and family life. But control is an illusion. We can’t even bank on 18 summers. I hope we have that much time and more as a family, but my job is to trust God one day at a time. That helps take the pressure off.
Second, I wholeheartedly resist the urge to compare my life with anyone else’s. That’s easier said than done, especially for millennial moms like me and young Gen Z parents. I’ve seen “18 summers” used to hawk everything from luxury vacations to $800 electric balance bikes for toddlers. Those particular temptations don’t grab me, but I still battle envy when friends head to summer homes or embark on cross-country adventures. I’ve spent beyond our budget to book short getaways, telling myself we deserve to escape the city for a little while.
Vacations can be wonderful opportunities to rest, rejuvenate, and reconnect as a family. But if I’m living for the next vacation, I’ve slid into idol territory and need to search my heart for the source of discontentment.
We all know that social media is a highlight reel and often a place to show off. I can quickly find myself along for the ride on another family’s vacation, a bit creepy at best and covetous at worst.
I asked Trillia Newbell, an author and Christian mom of two teenagers, how she handles the summertime comparison game. Her advice for parents of little ones is this: “Take the pressure and the burden that you are feeling and cast it on the Lord. And ignore the voices that aren’t helpful.”
And she added, “Encourage one another” (1 Thess. 5:11). I can get so caught up in the pressures of parenting that I forget to build others up. Trillia reminded me that the mom who appears to have it all together is fighting internal battles just like the rest of us.
Speaking of battles—my third takeaway is the most intense. As I count my summers, I must remember that time is not my enemy. But I do have a very real adversary.
In their book Risen Motherhood, Emily Jensen and Laura Wifler describe the cosmic battle between good and evil in terms every parent can understand.
It’s a bit like being downstairs quietly washing dishes … while upstairs the kids are in a Nerf gun battle. … We feel like time is quietly passing, but in reality, an epic war is raging right over our heads. Only the sounds of furniture bouncing and ceiling joists shaking cause us to look up with wonder.
The whole of the Bible makes it clear that “we do not wrestle against flesh and blood” but against “cosmic powers” and “spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places” (Eph. 6:12, ESV). Jesus warned against Satan’s lies and healed the demon possessed. But invisible cosmic battles can feel unreal in the midst of the everyday chaos of parenting.
“We see the light fixture shake and sense that something is wrong,” the authors of Risen Motherhood write. “The echoes of concern stir our souls, causing us to second-guess our reality. But Satan makes every effort to distract us, conceal the real battle, and lead us off course.”
When I treat time as my enemy and ignore the real battle, I’m tempted to cram as many experiences as possible into these short years with my children. Regret is the ultimate dirty word. Heaven forbid that I regret not booking that vacation, signing up for that camp, recording that vertical video.
As the cares of the world pull me down, distracting me from what’s truly important, my heavenly Father looks on me with mercy, compassion, and unfathomable love. I don’t have to perform to earn his favor. I just have to love God and those he has placed in my life and teach my children the truth that will set them free.
“Mama, will you sing?” my sweet boy asks me from the top bunk as I lay below, next to his little sister. I’m exhausted, but I sing until they fall asleep. Most nights, “Amazing Grace” is part of the lineup. I love the final verse:
When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
bright shining as the sun,
we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
than when we’d first begun.
Eighteen summers will be gone in the blink of an eye. Perhaps someday I’ll wish I could transport myself back to the bunk bed in our small apartment. But I’ve put my hope in Christ, and because of him, I don’t have to fear the passing of time or my own mortality.
Bring on the summertime, the campouts, the bat pee. It will all go by too fast. But the clock is ticking toward a new beginning—a reality far more joyful than the most perfect summer.
Kristy Etheridge is an editor at Christianity Today.
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