Eighteen summers — make them count
Her Perspective By Liz Biggs
A friend posted her child’s high school graduation photos, and the caption read, “We only have 18 summers — make them count.” I was staring at the blank page once again on the due date of my column and thought, “Hmm, that’s a good subject to write about.” I mentioned it to my editor, and she replied, “I think that’s already been written about; I think it’s a book.” Google confirmed this, informing me the key themes of the book are fleeting time, guilt and grace: “Parents roughly have just 18 summers to build memories and influence their children before they are grown and leave the nest. Throughout the book, the characters face distinct flaws and insecurities. As summer flies by, they must learn to navigate the delicate line between holding on to their kids and letting them go.” Sounds boring.
During my Google search, I also learned “18 Summers” is a song by Matthew West. I gave it a listen. Also boring. On the cheesy scale from Velveeta to Parmigiano Reggiano, this song tastes like Velveeta — like a scoop of nacho cheese at a high school football game. If I truly want to feel verklempt, Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle” is like a fine sharp cheddar. Still cheesy, but at least it’s aged well. Or “Father and Son” by Cat Stevens — it’s gooey like brie.
However, this is my 60th column, and I need a dang subject to write about, so even though it’s boring and cheesy, I’m sticking with it. I’ve got two paragraphs — in poker, that means I’m pot-committed. Forget about fleeting time; ain’t nobody got time to think about that. I will focus on guilt and grace. But mostly guilt.
Our fourth child only came home from college for a few weeks before she left to study abroad in Italy. Time with her is so precious — I thought we would do girly things like shop and brunch. I kind of hate shopping, and breakfast foods are gross, but I was willing to take one for the team. Turns out, all she wanted to do was clean out closets, cabinets and drawers. And get rid of all the stuff we have accumulated after living in the same house for 30 years. It would have been sheer torture to tackle the overstuffed closets on my own, but somehow, she made it fun. She let me touch everything — close my eyes and enjoy the memories — before she carted it all off to donate.
Online, I see friends with young children posting Disney trip photos, and a wave of guilt consumes me momentarily. I have Disney phobia. We took our first two children there when they were little. We read the guidebooks and knew to get there as soon as the park opened. It was a mob scene as we entered through the turnstiles. Our youngest was in a stroller, but our 5-year-old busted loose into the crowd, and we lost him in a matter of seconds. We spent our first two hours at Disney in the lost child office, terrified. He was found having a blast in Adventureland. If you know him, this kind of makes sense, lol. Lucky for us, my sister, their dear Aunt Susie, graciously became our children’s Disney surrogate and never lost them. I’m still afraid to go back.
It’s not the 18 summers part that stresses me out. It’s the make-them-count part that feels like too much pressure. These summers should be filled with “summer feelings”: leisurely beach vacays, cotton-candy-sky sunsets and naps in a hammock — but really, we’re sweating in this god-awful humidity, having bad hair days and fighting over whether to keep the expired cinnamon and vanilla in the spice-cabinet cleanout. (I totally agreed to throw away the 2018 Italian seasoning; it smelled like dirty socks. But the vanilla and cinnamon still smelled okay to me.)
Here’s the grace part: Listen to Talk Talk’s ’80s hit, “Life’s What You Make It” — can’t escape it, don’t backdate it, celebrate it, they sing. I suppose fun’s what you make it, too. Even death cleaning can be fun if it means you get to spend time with your 21-year-old baby girl. She’s back at college now, but every time I open a closet, cabinet or drawer, I smile and think of her.
