Dear Mom in the Thick of It

I don’t know who needs this reminder today more, you or me.

Maybe it’s because we’re standing at the finish line of another school year, where every day somehow holds three events, four permission slips, and one library book that’s been missing since February. Maybe it’s because summer is stretching out in front of us with all its promise… and all its snack requests.

Right now my days are filled with wet swim towels draped over every chair in the house, sunscreen smudges on the floor, endless rounds of “Can I have a snack?” followed immediately by, “There’s nothing to eat!” and the familiar chorus of “I’m bored.”

Some days motherhood feels less like making memories and more like managing logistics.

Laundry.

Lunches.

Carpool.

Cleaning.

Planning.

Repeat.

And if I’m being completely honest, there are afternoons when I catch myself wishing time would move just a little faster. Maybe just until bedtime. Or until school starts again. Or until Penny can make her own breakfast.

Then I remember something that always stops me in my tracks.

Somewhere, there is another mom who would give anything to hear those little footsteps racing down the hallway again.

While many of us are trying to survive the beautiful chaos of raising young children, there are moms quietly stepping into a completely different season. Their children are packing up dorm rooms, moving into first apartments, getting married, or simply building lives of their own. The house that once echoed with laughter, sibling arguments, slammed doors, and backpacks dropped in the entryway now feels…quiet.

I imagine those moms walking past bedrooms that stay clean because no one is there to make a mess.

No lunch to pack.

No permission slips to sign.

No school performances to rush across town for.

No little voice calling, “Mom, watch this!”

It’s a different kind of hard.

And it reminds me that every season of motherhood carries both joy and grief.

When our children are little, we ache for a little more space, a little more quiet, a little more sleep. When they’re grown, I imagine we ache for just one more bedtime story, one more tiny hand reaching for ours in the grocery store, one more sticky hug after school.

Time really is a thief.

Not in a cruel way, but in a quiet one.

It steals ordinary Tuesdays while we’re busy folding towels.

It slips past us during school drop-offs and bedtime routines and soccer practices. Before we know it, the child who needed help zipping their jacket is driving away without us.

That thought isn’t meant to make us feel guilty for the moments when motherhood feels exhausting. Because it is exhausting.

There are days when the noise feels overwhelming.

When everyone seems to need something from you at the exact same moment.

When you’ve answered the same question seventeen times before lunch.

When you’re certain you’ve washed the same swimsuit four days in a row.

Those moments are real.

But so are the beautiful ones tucked quietly inside them.

The little hand that still reaches for yours in the parking lot.

The artwork proudly pulled from a backpack.

Packing a favorite lunch and knowing they’ll smile when they open it.

Watching them scan the audience during the school play until they find your face.

Listening to bedtime prayers that somehow become both hilarious and deeply profound.

Being the one they still run to when they’ve had a hard day.

Those ordinary moments don’t usually feel extraordinary while we’re living them.

They simply feel…normal.

Until they aren’t anymore.

The beautiful thing is that motherhood doesn’t stop being meaningful as our children grow—it simply changes shape.

The moms who have raised children into adulthood get to experience something equally beautiful. They watch little personalities become fully formed people. They move from reminding their kids to brush their teeth to having real conversations about faith, marriage, work, dreams, disappointments, and life. Their children begin asking for wisdom instead of permission.

What a gift that must be.

The relationship becomes something entirely new—not less beautiful, just different.

I have a feeling that if moms on both ends of this journey sat down together over coffee, they wouldn’t spend much time comparing whose season is harder.

Instead, I think they’d remind each other to notice it.

The young mom might remind the empty nester to celebrate the incredible adults she helped shape.

The empty nester might gently tell the young mom, “Hold their hand while they’ll still let you.”

Both would understand something the other sometimes forgets: every season feels ordinary while you’re living it, and precious once it’s gone.

Scripture reminds us, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens” (Ecclesiastes 3:1).

Not every season feels easy.

Not every season feels peaceful.

But every season has purpose.

God doesn’t ask us to rush through the one we’re in. He invites us to find Him there.

Even here.

In the piles of laundry.

In the wet towels.

In the sticky kitchen floors.

In the school concerts.

In the long summer afternoons.

In the quiet homes.

In the full ones.

Psalm 90:12 says, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”

I’ve always loved that verse because I don’t think it’s asking us to count our days with sadness. I think it’s inviting us to pay attention to them.

To notice the sacred hidden inside the ordinary.

To recognize that one day we’ll miss the very things that feel overwhelming right now.

So today, if you’re in the thick of it with little kids climbing into your lap, asking for one more snack, one more story, one more push on the swing, I hope you’ll remember this:

You don’t have to love every moment to treasure this season.

You don’t have to pretend the hard parts aren’t hard.

You can be tired and thankful.

Overwhelmed and deeply grateful.

Ready for bedtime and still wish time would slow down.

Those things can all be true at once.

And if you’re reading this from a quieter house, I hope you know that your season is just as beautiful. The conversations are deeper. The hugs may be fewer, but they carry years of shared history. The prayers look different now. The love hasn’t diminished—it has simply grown.

Motherhood was never meant to stay the same.

Neither were our children.

So here’s to the moms in every season. May we encourage one another, borrow wisdom from those a few steps ahead, and remember that the ordinary days we sometimes wish away often become the ones we miss the most.

Because one day, we’ll look back and realize these weren’t just the busy years.