A reflection on time, parenting, and the first 11 golden summers
There’s a popular idea that by the time we reach our sixties or seventies, we may only have about ten really good summers left.
Summers when the body still works well enough. When walking the beach feels natural rather than effortful. When evenings stretch out instead of closing in early. It’s a confronting idea, because it forces us to look honestly at time — and how casually we often assume there will be more of it.
But there’s another set of golden summers we almost never talk about.
Not at the end of life.
But at the very beginning of someone else’s.
The first eleven.
The summers when your child is small. When they still think you’re fascinating. When they believe you’re capable of anything. When you’re not just a parent, but a hero. A safe place. The centre of their world.
There will never again be a time in your life when another human being loves you quite like this.
Not your friends. Not your partner. Not even your parents.
Because this love is uncomplicated. It’s unearned. It’s freely given. And quietly, without ceremony, it changes.
One day — and you won’t know when — this season ends.
There is a last time for everything
There will be a last time you pick them up. A last bedtime story. A last time they ask you to stay until they fall asleep. A last time they reach for your hand in public. And the hardest part is that none of those moments announce themselves as final. There’s no signal. No warning. No voice saying, pay attention — this matters.
It just slips past while you’re busy living.
That’s what makes these early summers so precious.
Not because they’re easy. Anyone who has raised a child knows they’re not. They’re loud, messy, tiring, and often overwhelming. They’re filled with interrupted sleep, half-finished thoughts, and plans that rarely go as expected.
But they are irreversible.
And presence — real presence — is the only thing that survives time.
Presence slows the passing of time
There’s a statistic that stopped me in my tracks when I first came across it. Researchers estimate that by the time your child turns twelve, you’ve already spent around two-thirds to three-quarters of the total time you’ll ever spend together. Not because love ends, but because life speeds up. School expands. Friends become central. Independence grows. Distance, sometimes physical and sometimes emotional, slowly appears.
You don’t lose your children. But the shape of the relationship changes.
Which is why these early summers carry so much weight. Not because every moment should be magical, or every day memorable, but because this is a once-in-a-lifetime relational configuration. There is one brief window where you are their safe place, their favourite person, and their reference point for the world — all at the same time.
Later, they may love you. They may respect you. They may even admire you.
But they will never again see you as best friend, hero, and home, all at once.
This isn’t just a story about family.
A child who grows up with presence — not perfection, just presence — learns something fundamental about being human. They learn, often without words, I matter without needing to earn it. That belief becomes emotional regulation. Secure attachment. The ability to trust. The capacity to repair relationships. It shapes how they show up in the world, and how they treat others when things are hard.
So when we talk about presence in these early years, we’re not talking about nostalgia. We’re talking about foundations.
Dealing with regret
If your child is already older and this brings up a sense of regret, hear this clearly: this is not a message of blame.
History is not destiny.
There are always moments waiting to be created. Moments for laughter. Moments for forgiveness. Moments where something old softens and something new begins. Maybe you were a perfect parent and your child is struggling anyway. Maybe you were far from perfect and they’re finding their own way. Maybe you missed opportunities and already feel the weight of that.
If that’s you, I’m genuinely sorry. That pain is real.
This reflection isn’t here to deepen it. It’s here to widen the circle of compassion.
Make the most of your ordinary moments
And for those who still have the opportunity — even a small one — this is an invitation. Not to live with guilt. Not to get everything right. Just to notice the season you’re in.
Because it’s often the most ordinary moments that become the most precious. The same jokes. The same questions. The same routines you quietly assume will last forever.
Until one day, they don’t.
One day, much later, you may find yourself counting your final ten golden summers. And when you do, how you feel about them may be shaped by how you lived these first eleven. Not because you did everything right, but because you were there. Because you noticed. Because you loved openly, imperfectly, and in real time.
We don’t get to choose how long each season lasts.
But we do get to choose how present we are while it’s here.