Summer is defined by kids dripping wet from the pool, the sweetness of watermelon, and the icy snap of popsicles on a hot afternoon. It is the season of bare feet and sun-kissed shoulders, when a good day is measured by how dirty your feet are before bedtime.
For parents, trips to the pool become a familiar summer ritual. We spend our time helping our kids get ready-slathering on sunscreen, blowing up arm floats, packing snacks, and, of course, adjusting goggles.
To be honest, my time at the pool was never exactly relaxing.
Just when I would finally settle into my chair and crack open a book, I'd hear it.
"Mom, can you toss me my goggles?"
Up I'd go, digging through the beach bag. Were they in here? Did we remember them? After rummaging through towels, snack wrappers, and abandoned pool toys, I'd finally feel the familiar rubber strap and toss them into the water.
Relief.
Then I'd sit back down, find my place, and start reading the first paragraph.
"Mom! Can you tighten my goggles?"
"Sure," I'd answer, standing up once again.
At the time, those requests felt endless. But somewhere along the way, I realized something. One day, they would stop asking.
One day, they would know where their own goggles were.
One day, they would tighten the straps themselves.
One day, they wouldn't need me sitting poolside at all.
From that moment on, I started looking at those daggone goggles differently.
Every request became a reminder that my children were still wonderfully young. Even as they grew taller and more independent, they still wanted to dive beneath the surface and see what treasures might be hiding below. There is something magical about goggles. They transform an ordinary pool into an underwater world waiting to be explored.
Goggles are a hallmark of childhood.
You rarely see teenagers racing to the deep end to search for diving rings or spending hours underwater pretending to be explorers. Eventually, pool days become more about lounging in the sun, talking with friends, and staying effortlessly cool. Hair stays dry. Makeup stays intact. The carefree underwater adventures begin to fade.
And that's exactly how life is supposed to go.
Still, there is something bittersweet about watching it happen.
As parents, we spend years teaching our children to become independent. Then one day, they actually do.
So for years, I happily handed over the goggles. I tightened straps, untangled rubber bands, and reread the same paragraph of my book three times because I never quite made it to the second page. I knew those interruptions were temporary.
This past weekend, my daughter went to the swim club with a couple of friends.
She packed her own bag. She organized her own things. I wasn't needed.
Naturally, I still asked if she had her sunscreen after noticing a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil sitting next to her bag.
"Just drop us off, Mom," she said.
She didn't need me to stay. In fact, her "cool factor" probably improved if I didn't.
Later that day, when she came home, I noticed something.
Her hair was dry.
"Did you girls go off the diving board?" I asked.
"No," she replied. "We barely went in the deep end. We just stayed where we could stand."
I smiled.
The tide had definitely shifted.
The little girl who spent hours underwater searching for rings and treasures was growing up. That's what children do.
That evening, I walked past her bag, which sat half-unpacked on the kitchen table.
And then I saw them.
Two pairs of goggles.
I stopped in my tracks.
My heart swelled.
She had packed them.
Not because she used them.
Not because she needed them.
But because some part of her thought she might.
Just in case.
In that moment, I realized the little girl I miss isn't actually gone. She's still there, tucked beneath the surface of this beautiful young woman she's becoming. She's still hopeful. Still curious. Still ready, at a moment's notice, to dive underwater, search for treasures, and explore the world beneath the surface.
The goggles never made it into the pool that day.
But somehow, seeing them in her bag was enough.
For now, the goggles are still coming along for the ride.
And so is that little girl.
