Back when my boys were small and even before I had kids of my own, I remember regarding children in the age range my boys are now entering as an alien species. The small mouths crowded with oddly-spaced adult teeth; the sense of awkwardness that infuses the movements of their developing bodies; the no-longer-cute but not-yet-mature faces. At the time, babies and toddlers made sense to me: you can tote them around on your hip to get them from point A to point B, calm a big feeling with a hug, crash the same toy car into the same set of blocks ad infinitum, producing the same level of delight each time.
I’d watch older kids in grocery stores, on airplanes, at playgrounds, and become almost paralyzed with dread. Would I still like my own kids when they entered that awkward in-between phase? I wondered. What do you even do with kids that age?
And now I know: anything and everything you can.
You go to amusement parks and scream your faces off while riding the biggest roller coasters because you no longer have to pretend to like the teacups or the slow-moving train that endlessly circles the park.
You swim in the deep end of the pool and take turns practicing your form off the diving board, giving each other Olympic-style ratings.
You watch all the movies you loved best at that age, even with all their questionable 90s references—Back to the Future, Sandlot, Jumanji, The Mighty Ducks—and give yourself an inner high-five when they love them as much as you once did.
You laugh when they use a swear word in perfect context.
You walk through the world unencumbered by diaper bags and strollers, sippy cups and yogurt tubes. In the in-between, there is far less paraphernalia and they’re old enough to carry their own crap.
You teach them your favorite board and card games and find yourself both impressed and a little salty when they get better at them than you are.
You marvel at their newfound physical prowess, the way their bodies jump and stretch and bend as they master a swimming stroke or sink a shot from the three point line. When they race you across the yard, you don’t have to pretend to lose—they’re faster than you in the in-between.
You delight in taking them out to restaurants where they confidently order their own meals and (mostly) keep the floor underneath their chairs clean.
You let them stay up late to watch Fourth of July fireworks streak across the night sky or to catch a nighttime movie at the local theater or simply because it’s a gorgeous summer night and no one feels like going inside. In the in-between, you don’t have to pay for late nights in quite the same way you did with a toddler.
You let them teach you all the things they know that you’ve never learned or long since forgotten: the unique mating call of a particular backyard bird; the best way to defeat a Minecraft mob; how to draw a realistic three-dimensional cartoon character.
You say “I love you” a lot and cuddle up with them on the couch because, for a little while at least, they’ll still let you.
Last Friday, my older son turned nine. This age isn’t usually regarded as a big milestone since the years of double digits are looming right around the corner. But for me, it felt significant. Half his childhood is over, I thought as I watched my son during his birthday party, cracking jokes and goofing around with his friends. Sure, there’s a small part of me that misses those early years: their contented milky sighs, the chubby wrists and raspy toddler voices, the way they still tucked their small hands in mine to cross a busy parking lot.
But mostly, I see these receding years as a call to action rather than an invitation to paralyzing nostalgia. I don’t want to go back in time; I just want to make these remaining years count in all the ways I’m able. Even with our deep connection and the underlying mutual respect my sons and I have for each other, they will still need me less and less with each passing year. Their peers will become their primary connection to the world around them. They will desire more independence, more responsibility, experiences that do not include my husband or I. And even though I’m sure it will feel like a thousand tiny paper cuts to my heart, I want all of that for them because that’s how they become healthy, whole-hearted human beings.
But for now, while we’re still in the in-between, I just want to make these years count. I want to run around playing their silly invented games, let them stay up late to watch slightly inappropriate movies, clutch each other’s hands as we coast to the top of a scary ass rollercoaster. I want to make a mess of the kitchen baking triple chocolate brownies, laugh at dumb cat videos on the internet, let them crawl into my bed when they have a nightmare. And when we eventually arrive on the other side of the in-between, I want to show up with bags stuffed full of memories from this inexplicably wonderful life we got to lead, with not a single space reserved for regrets.
I hope you are doing well! This was a wonderful read and hit so close to home as my baby turned 4 today. Holy moly time flies 🥹