August always sneaks up on me like a thief in the night.
One minute, it is the Fourth of July, and we are talking about the dogs being scared of fireworks, and where did I leave my flip-flops? It seems like the next minute, the focus shifts to back-to-school sales, a silent house, and no more shoes left by the door.
For me, August is not just the end of summer. It has become the annual ritual of letting go all over again. My nest becomes empty, again. Somehow, it never gets easier.
I have done this before. I have packed the bags, made the Target runs, and sorted items for dorms and apartments. I have given hugs and kissed foreheads in college parking lots, waving out the car windows as if that made the distance less real. Fortunately, each kid goes to school closer than the older sibling. Each time, I try to be braver. I smile, I say “I am so proud of you,” and I mean it. But the truth is, when the door closes behind them, and I walk back into that quiet house, the ache returns like clockwork.
It is the echo of lives lived loudly that I miss. It is the shoes left by the front door, backpacks strewn across the TV room, the familiar question of “What did you guys have for dinner?” that has now been replaced by a stillness that does not quite feel like peace.
There is a commercial from Dick’s Sporting Goods that plays in my mind as I write this. It makes me ache for what I had. You may have seen it. It shows parents waking up in the early morning, sucking down their coffee, loading kids into SUVs, rushing to practices and games, telling parents your life now revolves around sports and outlining how parents are their children’s fans, equipment managers, bus drivers, and cheerleaders.
Man, are they right.
When you are in it, you think you will never stop being a sports parent, or a band parent, or theater parent, or a science fair parent, or whatever version of a sideline supporter you have been. You think you will always be tying someone else’s skates, memorizing game schedules, bringing snacks, forgetting snacks, and apologizing to coaches and other parents. There are times you even complain about all the seemingly endless shuttling, the smell of their gear bag (hockey moms know what I mean. Is there a worse smell??), the stress of making it all work.
But when it is over, when the calendar is suddenly blank and there is no rink/field/pitch/theatre you need to be on a random Tuesday, when the backseat holds nothing but dog hair from last night’s ride, you feel the loss in your bones.
The Dick’s commercial doesn’t just market cleats or balls. It sells something much heavier. It is the weight of time. The understanding that the role we play as parents in our children’s daily lives is so fleeting, even when it feels all-consuming. I used to joke that I was not just a mom, I was a logistics manager, especially for the travel I did for nine weeks out of the year each year. I was the family operations manager. Looking back, I loved it more than I admitted at the time.
Now, with another August staring me down, and my house emptying one by one, I realize I miss being needed in that chaotic, constant way.
Of course, my (grown) children still need me. Now it is just in a different way. They call for advice or to vent about any variety of things that happen in their day. But it is still not the same as having your life wrapped around theirs, like vines twisting through the years. They are untangling now, growing toward their own light. That is what we want, right? That’s what we raise them to do.
But it doesn’t mean that letting go does not hurt.
I have started to realize that this is the part of parenting for which no one prepares. The silent triumphs. The absence. The feeling that your job description has changed, and no one told you. They say parenting is the only job where the goal is to work yourself out of it. August is when I feel that most acutely.
Still, in the stillness, there is room for something else to grow.
In the quiet mornings, I sip coffee instead of fixing hair and ironing uniforms. I read. I walk. I rediscover pieces of myself that got lost in the whirlwind of practices and signing permission slips. I am trying to remember who I was before I was a mom. I am slowly learning to welcome the new rhythm, even when it stings.
When I miss the noise, I thank goodness for FaceTime. Some days, I just need to see their faces. I am very lucky, we have two very active family text groups. Missing them stinks, but isn’t that the price of love? I think it is. I would not trade any of it.
So here we are again, in August. Packing bags, checking lists, pretending we are not counting the days. Pretending we are not already missing them before my nest is totally empty.
I will smile at the store clerks who ask if I am sending a kid off to school. I will say yes, again. Maybe she will see the flicker behind my eyes, that combination of pride and pain that defines the month of August for so many of us.
To all the parents out there, especially the ones standing in the aisles of those sporting goods stores, buying the new gear with those anticipatory smiles, or the ones taking their children to the theatre or band practice, so very early, thinking, Will this ever end? If you are just starting the journey, deep in the carpool chaos and uniform stains, trust me. You will miss it when it is over. I do.
Because August always comes, and it always takes a piece of your heart with it.
