As I sit here watching the children run around, laughing under the summer sun—especially my son, who’s four now, enjoying his fourth summer with us—I can’t help but drift back to my own childhood.
Summer felt different then.
Or maybe…
I was different.
I can still remember the excitement that came before every trip.
Packing the bags.
Grabbing the snacks and drinks.
Stopping at KFC for a big bucket of chicken, family fries, and biscuits because that was always our lunch.
Then we’d make our way to the dock by the old Texaco gas station. Daddy would fill up the boat with gas while someone grabbed bags of ice for the cooler.
Those little moments felt so ordinary then.
Now they feel priceless.
Lately I’ve found myself feeling unexpectedly emotional when I think about those summers.
Not because I wish I could go back and be a child again.
But because I know I never will.
Those summers belong to a version of life that’s already been lived.
The boat is gone now.
The people are older.
Life looks different.
But those memories…
They still feel like home.
Once we were out on the water, my daddy always knew exactly where he was going.
My sister and I didn’t have a care in the world.
We were just along for the ride.
I always claimed my favorite spot—the very front of the boat.
I’d sit at the tip with my legs tucked between the railings, holding on as tightly as I could while the wind rushed past my face.
At seven years old, I felt fearless.
Looking back now…
I honestly don’t know if I could let Liam do that.
Not because he’s four.
Even if he were seven, like I was.
I don’t think my mama heart could handle it.
And that’s when I started thinking about my own mom.
I wonder what she was feeling all those years ago.
Did she watch me from the back of the boat with her heart racing every time we hit a wave?
Did she want to tell me to come sit somewhere safer?
Or did she quietly let me have that adventure because she knew childhood was meant to be lived, even if it scared her a little?
It’s funny how becoming a parent changes the way you remember your own parents.
As children, we mostly remember how safe we felt.
As adults, we start realizing how much courage it must have taken for them to let us grow.
My younger sister, who’s four years younger than me, usually stayed inside the little cabin.
Most of the time she’d peek her head out through the hatch, watching the world from somewhere that probably felt much safer.
I never questioned why.
Why would I?
I was too busy feeling the wind in my hair.
But now I wonder if my mom secretly wished I were sitting beside my sister instead.
Safe.
Protected.
Enclosed.
Close enough that she didn’t have to wonder if I was okay.
It’s amazing how motherhood gives you entirely new memories from moments you thought you’d already lived.
The older Liam gets, the more I find myself wondering what my own parents were thinking during the moments I only experienced through a child’s eyes.
Our summers look completely different.
Liam’s childhood won’t be filled with boat rides and coolers packed with KFC.
Instead, I imagine one day he’ll look back on afternoons spent at Sandcastle.
Swimming until his fingers wrinkle.
Laughing as he races from one slide to another.
Splashing in the wave pool.
Begging to stay “just five more minutes.”
These will become his summers.
His version of childhood.
His core memories.
And I think that’s what every parent is really trying to do.
We’re all just quietly collecting moments.
Planning little adventures.
Packing snacks.
Saying yes to one more trip to the pool.
One more bedtime story.
One more ice cream on a hot afternoon.
Not because every day has to be magical.
But because we’re hoping that somewhere in the ordinary, our children will remember how loved they felt.
I think we’re so hard on ourselves as parents.
We scroll through endless ideas of bucket lists and expensive vacations, wondering if we’re doing enough.
Wondering if we’re creating enough memories.
Wondering if one day they’ll look back and feel like they had a childhood worth remembering.
But when I think back to my own childhood…
I don’t remember my parents trying to make every moment extraordinary.
I don’t remember elaborate plans or perfectly curated summers.
I remember being together.
I remember feeling safe.
I remember laughing.
I remember the excitement of a bucket of KFC before a day on the water.
I remember my dad driving the boat.
And now, as a mom, I remember something I couldn’t possibly have understood then.
The love that quietly surrounded every one of those moments.
Maybe that’s the secret.
Maybe our children won’t remember every outing we planned or every dollar we spent trying to make childhood magical.
Maybe they’ll remember the feeling.
The feeling of being loved.
The feeling of knowing someone packed their favorite snacks.
The feeling of hearing us laugh.
The feeling of home.
And maybe…
That’s been enough all along.
♡