As I sit at the waterpark, I’m confronted with a new and somewhat unsettling reality: my kids don’t want to play with me anymore, and honestly, it stings a bit. If you’re reading this while juggling a four-year-old demanding yet another round of their favorite game or constructing yet another LEGO masterpiece, you might not sympathize with my feelings right now. I totally get it. Not too long ago, I found myself losing my voice from endless rounds of imaginative play, desperately hoping to be left alone, even for a moment.
That’s why it’s surprising how hard this change is hitting me. Upon arrival, the kids excitedly asked me to ride “Cactus Falls” with them. We scream with joy as we slide down, and I eagerly follow them back to the stairs. But just as we begin the next climb, my youngest, Ethan, turns to me and says, “Mom, we can go by ourselves this time.”
“Oh, um, okay! See you at the bottom!” I reply with forced enthusiasm, returning to my husband, Jake, who tries to console me. “Don’t worry, honey! I’ll play with you!”
“But you’re boring!” I pout, and I see his expression change. “I mean, at the waterpark! You don’t like the slides!”
I head toward the single-rider slides, giving a half-hearted cheer as I go down. Even the thrill of sliding doesn’t bring me joy.
The irony isn’t lost on me; friends often told me about this stage. I listened with the excitement of a teen anticipating their college years—waterpark freedom. This means kids who can entertain themselves while I relax with dry hair, sipping a cocktail and enjoying a book. But, just like the harsh realities of adulthood, this freedom comes with unexpected feelings of sadness.
I sit with Jake for a bit, debating whether the fit grandpa we see is genuinely athletic or just blessed with good genes. I check on Ethan and his older brother, Lucas, who are playing with new friends in the lazy river. Ethan even makes a heart sign with his hands to express his infatuation. How sweet. I wonder why I was so eager for a poolside drink when I barely drink at all.
Next, the boys want to try the MagiQuest game, which requires running up and down the hotel stairs while waving a plastic wand at various objects to collect clues. Honestly, no sane parent would want to partake in this wild adventure.
“Just sit by the fire, Mom. We’ll be fine!” they assure me.
Perfect! I relish the alone time while Jake naps in our room. I settle by the fire, enjoying my surroundings and observing a little girl dancing joyfully, her cowboy boots splashing in the puddles of water, while her mom seems utterly exhausted.
An hour passes, and soon the boys are back, begging to go to the arcade—a kid’s version of a casino where you spend a small fortune to win enough tickets for a couple of candies. I loathe the kid casino.
“Just load our cards, Mom; you can wait outside!” they say.
I take a seat at a table nearby, enjoying ice cream while scrolling through social media, catching up on their antics. I should feel elated, but the truth is, I’m feeling… sad. It’s a disconcerting emotion that doesn’t align with the image of the “perfect mom” I aspire to be. I want to embrace every moment and cherish each milestone, believing that there are far more significant issues in life than feeling a twinge of sadness as my kids grow up.
I cringe at the thought of the book “I’ll Love You Forever,” especially that part where the mom sneaks into her adult son’s room, cradling him as she sings. It feels suffocating and needy to obsess over our children like that.
As I dry my hair before dinner, the sadness creeps in again. It’s a gentle ache, a reminder of time passing. I text my mom about our elderly dog, who is nearing the end of her life, and I realize this could be affecting me too. Perhaps it’s compounded by my husband losing a childhood friend unexpectedly. Am I genuinely sad because my kids are gaining independence? Whatever the cause, I remember the spiritual lessons that life encompasses joy, humor, and sadness. You can’t have one without the others.
Later, I watch a little girl in a polka-dot bathing suit stumble and cry as she slips on the wet floor, while her weary mother tries to keep up. Just then, Ethan and Lucas grab my hands, eager to pull me toward the hot tub. “Come join us, Mom!”
We hop in, and Ethan curls up in my lap. I tease him, “My little baby!” It’s amusing considering he’s nearly my height. “I’ll love you forever…” I think, as the pool is about to close.
“Didn’t we just get here?” Time really is a funny thing. But there are still a few moments left, and I’m determined to maximize our time together.
Conclusion
In summary, parenting can bring unexpected feelings, especially when kids begin to gain their independence. While it’s an exciting phase, it can also evoke a sense of sadness that’s difficult to reconcile. Embracing the full spectrum of emotions is part of the journey, as each moment holds its unique beauty.
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