This is for any parent who is home with their children for the summer and has conflicted feelings about it, because let’s face it— it’s a lot.

The other night, I decided on a whim to go out dancing. My daughter had a friend over for a sleepover, and they were playing Minecraft and completely oblivious to my presence. They didn’t need me, were old enough to be left on their own, and I desperately needed to get out of the house.

It was a great decision. Moments after inching onto the empty, astroturf dance floor, a three or four-year-old kid bounced up to me and grabbed my hands, pulling me into a spin. We twirled and skipped around and around as my sense of time, responsibility, and tiredness slipped away.

“You’re a natural,” a friend said to me, bouncing up beside me to join the play. My antics were making people laugh and a few inched toward the dance floor.

Though I have always been one who is willing to get the dancing going, I was surprised at myself for being so uninhibited. This kind of play was extra, and it came so easily here, with people clapping, the youthful energy, the music thumping, and the tiny hands still pulling me in dizzying circles.

The giggles tumbled out of me as my feet floated over the ground. It was so simple to dance with this tiny, fearless stranger. For a moment, I was a feather. A bobcat. A shooting star. A shark. And then I was a sober, adult woman again, trying not to be embarrassed that so many grown-up people were watching me goof around.

Meh. Whatever. Let them judge me. I don’t care.

It had been too long since I danced with a kid—danced like a kid—and had that much fun.

I’m sad to say that dancing with this little boy was very different than (maybe better than) dancing with my daughter when she was younger. I mean, I always tried to summon the energy and playful spirit, and I wanted to have fun and make memories. Really I did.

But back then I was bone tired, doing it by myself, and chronically over-stimulated, aching, and anxious. Back then, when she came up to grab my hand and pull me onto the dance floor, the best I could do was sigh and join her reluctantly, dragging my feet and chewing on my resentment as she twirled and jumped and tried like hell to pull playful energy out of the shadows.

Look, I dearly loved every moment of presence and play that my daughter and I were fortunate enough to have together. I did. And, if I am being honest, at the same time, I found myself plagued by an itchy boredom—an ache for something different that clawed at my insides.

This staying home and playing blocks and taking walks and grocery shopping and dishes-doing life was what I had wanted, but in real time it was only partially fulfilling and mostly exhausting.

Yes, I’ve always wanted to be the mom I didn’t get to have, and I got to do that and I’m grateful. But in addition to being a solo mom, I am also a prolific creative, and doing parenting by myself is just too much. For too long, my joy and well of inspiration have been buried deep inside my broken-down body and hidden behind the constant stream of emotional overwhelm.

My daughter was born into a household where depression and alcohol filled the space that should have been free for play. Even after the divorce, when there was no longer constant conflict, our play was still tinged with longing, grief, emptiness, and perpetually wishing it could be more.

Early motherhood was hard. Harder than hard. I mean, I love being a mom and I am pretty good at it, but I got walloped by unhealthy relationship dynamics and then divorce. I wish more than anything I could go back in time and linger there, with my cheek pressed up against hers. I wish I could have been more peaceful then, more playful, more fulfilled, more secure.

I wish I could have let her be enough.

Now she is 11, and we’ve both settled into this solitary single mom/only child creative, adventurous life. I have more and more time to deepen into my writing, teaching, and time in nature, and she is spending more time running around town with friends. We spend less and less time snuggling and playing, and until that kid pulled me onto the dance floor, I’m not sure I realized how much I really miss it.

My daughter and I, we have a special thing going…a “Lorelai and Rory” kind of dynamic (IYKYK). We can have deep, meaningful talks, and riveting conversations. But it’s been a long time since we danced together. And I wish I felt more playful, more interested in pulling her away from the screen, more available to be fully present with her.

I do have more time to get back to myself now, and I feel this new growth emerging, an energy pushing up through my core as I enter this new drama-filled era of motherhood, perimenopause, and raising an anxious middle schooler. Yikes. It’s okay. I’m here for it. I’m committed for the long haul.

But I wonder, with life getting so serious when will I get my next chance to be silly and tumble around on the dance floor, pulled into a twirl by a manic, bouncing kiddo?

Perhaps all I have to do to find light-hearted play is to put on a song and twirl myself around. Perhaps if I commit to play and wonder as fiercely as I have to my morning meditation it will help move joy and wonder a little closer to the surface?

I’m learning that moments of play become so much more precious as you get older. Now, in this season of life, welcoming my daughter home for the summer from fifth grade, we are both starting a new chapter. With it, I am setting an intention to tap into wonder and play much more often—and on purpose.

I’ll start by letting go of my own agenda and the illusion that I should have more time to myself than I do, and giving us both the space and time to play.

I wrote the following poem back in August 2020, in the early Covid days when schools were closed and our kids were home 24/7.

It seemed relevant to bring it around again for the burned out parents who are struggling to be playful and present with their children:

Welcome the Children

Welcome the Children home from school.
Invite them into the kitchen, to plunge their hands into soapy water and to wash the forks.
Let them break eggshells into the batter and pick out the pieces.
Let them poke the muffins with a toothpick.
Let them lick the spoon. The bowl.
Let them walk around for hours with a chocolate mustache, and teach them how to wet a washcloth and clean their face in a mirror.
Offer them lessons in folding laundry, cleaning the toilet, wiping down the windows.
Invite them to participate in your life.

Welcome the Children.
Let them wave at your boss in the Zoom meeting.
Teach them that they need to be wearing clothes if they are going to appear on a video screen.
But let them wear their clothes backwards, inside out. Let them wear princess costumes and makeup and build pillow forts that appear in the background of your calls with investors and clients.

Welcome the Children.
Climb into the forts with them, and let them invite you into a world of wonder and imagination.
Welcome the Children to explore the earth like never before.
Let them become kings and queens of the high valleys and the forests and deserts and canyons.
Let them fall in love with the land.

Welcome them to press their hands and feet deep into the moist, rich soil.
To push seeds into the earth and to pour water on delicate sprouts.
Let them watch a plant grow. Let them linger with their gaze on the sunset.
Find shapes in the clouds. Open their mouths to raindrops falling from the sky.

Welcome the Children home for the summer.
Allow them to take up space. Make them clean up their messes, but let them spill laughter into the living room, the study, the kitchen, the garden, and all the darkened corners of your life.

Let them belong where they already are.
Let them wake you at dawn, and hang out in the bathroom while you brush your teeth.
Let them observe how you navigate your life. Let them feel the steadiness of your heart.

Let them be close to you because I promise there will come a day when the bathroom is too clean and the dinner table is too quiet, and you will miss them.

Be there with them, and just breathe, as if being together and breathing is enough—not empty space that needs to be filled with something more.

Welcome the children, and your own playfulness over and over and over and over again. It feels strange at first, but you’ll get used to it.

Linger at bedtime. Read extra chapters.
Share your own stories of growing up and tell them about your day, your dreams, your hopes, what you wish for them, for the world. Share “Roses and Thorns,” gratitude, and listen to them talk. Really listen.

Listen without judging or responding or fixing or offering advice.
Listen as if this might be the only opportunity to hear.
Listen as if you might never get to listen again.

Maybe even listen as if you, yourself, are that tender child.
What was it like to tell your own mother about your day?

Does it make you sad to remember?

Can you remember longing to be heard and seen and known—reaching out for connection, for touch, for a rare moment, even just a few seconds of your busy parents’ attention?

Welcome the tender little one who still lives within each of us.
The child who cries, laughs, sings, dances inside.
Welcome the innocent one who just wants to please her parents. The one who works really hard to get it right.
Welcome the sweet one who just wants to pick flowers, catch butterflies, and throw rocks in the river.

Welcome the ballerina who just wants to dance.

Welcome the wide-eyed explorer who sees a universe in a grain of sand and cannot stop asking questions.

Welcome the superhero who flies from couch to couch, cape waving in the wind—the one who saves the day when the floor is lava.

They can help us remember how to play, if we ask them. Because it isn’t always easy. If we pay attention, they can even remind us how to wonder. How to let go of all the knowing and doing and trying to be more. How to awaken our hearts, rest our souls, and let ourselves dream.

So, draw with them. Paint. Be “kitty.” Throw sticks and climb trees. Peel the bark. Pick petals from flowers.

Welcome the children home again and again, so that they know they are not too much. Let them know they are not in the way.

They are not a problem because they are around. They are not invading your space. They are not interrupting your life.

They are your life.

We can never have too many reminders that we belong.

Five years after writing this poem, I’ll add this: it’s okay to welcome yourself home too and protect your peace like a mama bear protects her cubs. Even when the physical space becomes chaotic, you can make a refuge within yourself.

Don’t give in to the impulse to rush off to the next moment when things come to a standstill or feel suffocating. Don’t try to escape it, numb it, or think that shuffling your little ones off to a playdate or a sleepover will finally give you the peace and quiet you need. I mean it might, but you can also skillfully cope with their presence using simple mindfulness practices, and as a benefit maybe get to enjoy the time with your kids a little more.

Instead, start here:

Anytime you notice that feeling of confinement inside a life that’s not in your control, see if you can pause. Take a moment to turn attention toward yourself. Breathe. Feel your feet on the ground. Place your hand on your heart. Rest your attention with the sensations in your body. Notice gravity. Welcome yourself home.

Remember, your nervous system is the intervention. And you are enough. Just being yourself is enough.

~