My husband, Mark, asked me repeatedly if I wanted to join him and our 8-year-old son, Lucas, for the opening night of the new Star Wars movie. While I was excited about the film, he suggested we bring along our 3-year-old, Ethan. Although Ethan had made great strides since his terrible twos, I knew that this would be his first cinematic experience, and I doubted he could sit still for that long. The thought of chasing a toddler around a theater did not appeal to me at all. I would rather enjoy the movie in peace than spend twenty dollars only to miss half of it.
After some back and forth, I decided it would be best to arrange for a babysitter to look after Ethan while Mark, Lucas, and I enjoyed the film. It turned out to be the perfect solution. Ethan had a blast playing with toys, while the rest of us experienced an evening that felt remarkably effortless.
We stopped at a nearby Chik-fil-A to grab a light dinner before heading to the theater. In the past, I often found myself managing spills of chocolate milk or opening bags of apple slices. But this time, it wasn’t me.
At the next table, two little girls with matching hair bows bickered about who would sit next to their dad. I recognized the exhausted expressions on their parents’ faces. A mother struggled with her infant, navigating a wheeled child’s seat and balancing a tray of food. I smiled at her, recalling the days when I had to manage similar situations with my own kids. But again, this time it wasn’t me.
I watched as Lucas sat quietly, savoring his meal without pretending the table was a spaceship or standing on his chair. There was no need to remind him to sit down or to stop staring at the patrons behind us. Not long ago, I had to carry a screaming toddler out of that very restaurant. But this time, everything was calm and collected.
I enjoyed my complicated salad without interruptions or ketchup on my clothes. We sat in peaceful silence, and I relished every bite. Outside, a boy dashed back and forth, and his frazzled mother repeatedly asked if he was done eating. This time it wasn’t me.
For the first time in ages, I didn’t have that all-consuming mom focus. I could actually observe my surroundings: the sounds of children’s laughter from the play area, the joyful squeals filling the air. I glanced at Lucas and felt a twinge of sadness; he was growing up too fast, and I feared he might soon think he was too old for play areas. I missed my toddler.
Mark wrapped his arm around me and joked about how to spend our newfound free time. We both chuckled, realizing we were at a loss for what to do with an evening that felt so effortless.
Finally, as our leisurely meal came to a close, Lucas asked if he could visit the play area. I sighed in relief, grateful for this small connection to his younger days. “Yes, but only for about 10 minutes,” I replied, and he dashed off.
As we walked to the theater, I held Lucas’s hand a little longer than usual. He didn’t pull away. He even asked for cotton candy at the concession stand. I cherished these moments—him still being young enough to enjoy play areas and hold my hand. I felt lucky. This time it wasn’t me.
Perhaps the mom tunnel vision isn’t always a bad thing. As we stand on the brink of changes, the little things—the cries of newborns or the antics of toddlers—become even more precious. I was grateful for the opportunity to enjoy the movie and looked forward to picking Ethan up afterward. One day, Lucas would be all grown up, and it would be me again.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Clara recounts an evening out with her family, noting the significant changes in her children as they grow. While she cherishes the memories of her toddler years, she also appreciates the newfound ease of parenting an older child, highlighting the bittersweet nature of raising children.