Where I live, fall is getting into full swing with her shorter days, colder temperatures, and fiery palette. Though I feel as if it was high summer only yesterday – full of sandy afternoons, bare feet, and ice cream – I now have to adapt to a new reality filled with sweaters, sneakers, homework, and pitch black mornings.

Motherhood is like that. The phases of childhood flash before our eyes like the seasons – playing in fast motion so that years last only moments and days go by too quickly to see clearly. One minute, we’re bundling an infant in twelve layers of polar fleece before a walk in the park, the next we’re begging a teenager to please take a coat even though she’s not cold and “no one else is wearing one.”

There is no surprise in summer following spring and fall following summer. We see the changes from far off, but it still seems to come as a shock. It still feels like one day you wake up and all the leaves have fallen … or your baby is suddenly all grown up.

Our day-to-day routine shows me the subtle markers of big change. I no longer have to buckle her into her booster seat in the car.  She can get her own snacks. There are fewer midnight calls to ward off nightmares. The other day, as we were getting ready for her bath, my little girl stood in front of me and put her arms straight up so I could help her off with her shirt. That small gesture nearly brought me to tears. Memories of the thousands of times I’d dressed and undressed her rushed in at me, overshadowed by the knowledge that soon she would not need me to help in this way anymore.

At the end of the summer, we spent one last, languid afternoon at the beach. The unseasonably warm water tempted my daughter and she spent most of the time frolicking in the shallow waves. Not dressed for swimming, I had to stay at the water’s edge. Though I could cheer her successful swimming, laugh at her antics, and wave encouragingly from the shore, I could not join her in the water. And I thought, “This is what it will be like soon.” Soon I will be mostly an observer. I will not be able to follow her through every moment of her life, holding her hand for her sake and mine. I will have stand at the edge of the deep ocean and watch her swim out.

And another season of motherhood will be upon me. There will be tumultuous autumns, icy winters, and merciful springs. We will have the lush, verdant summers and angst-ridden falls. I will watch her grow through these seasons – learning when to plant, when to reach for the sun, and when to let things lie fallow. I will look on proudly as she steps out into the world as her own person – learning to swim in the summer, explore in the fall, contemplate in the winter, and emerge like a butterfly each new spring.

And I will grow, too. I will learn to be her mother in each new season. Sometimes I will stumble, but I will always get back up. I will adapt to the changes while remaining a constant in her life. Because that’s what mothers do.

Image Credit: Pam Ullman