Sometimes, you literally have to stop and smell the roses. That cliché captures how I feel about our summer as a family—the first one with a toddler after my daughter, Louie, turned a year and a half.
There were no jam-packed trips abroad, and even our usual long-weekend getaways became simple day trips. We didn’t spend endless afternoons at the beach—just an hour or so, which somehow felt like forever (in the best way). Even the one time we tried to drive to Kelowna for the weekend, we had to turn around and head home after wildfire smoke appeared too potent for little lungs.
Instead, we stayed close. This park, that park, this splash pad, that splash pad—each one reached by foot, sunflower seeds tucked into the bottom tray of the stroller.
What I’ve learned on my parenting journey so far is that everything—the good, the bad, and the in-between—comes in seasons. Nothing is certain, and nothing lasts forever. Before I felt ready to close the curtain on Summer 2025, I wanted to get my feelings down on paper—or, more accurately, into a Google Doc.
For me, the curtain closes around the end of September. While September 1st carries a bit of a new-year energy, those weeks right after Labour Day still feel like late May or early June. The days are warm and long, the drinks are cold, and the air still hums with summer.
But then, one day, you notice the leaves on the ground or that crisp chill in the air. I caught myself lingering by the window on the last Saturday of September, realizing it was the grand finale. And wow—did it get me in my feelings.
Despite the seasonality of parenting, there are still these little blips in time—moments that seem to copy themselves. The last time I wrote for this blog was in May, and somehow it feels like both yesterday and a lifetime ago. The saying is true: the days are long, but the years are short—and summers, apparently, are a blur.
Not long ago, we were driving through snow and rain to swimming lessons, birthday parties, errands—all with me typing away in the passenger seat. That quickly turned into long walks to the park. My phone was replaced by an iced coffee or a food pouch for Louie.
Now we’re back to jackets instead of T-shirts. The towel under the stroller isn’t for drying off after the splash pad—it’s for wiping frost off the slide.
A dad-fluencer I follow, Timm Chuisano, once wrote a memo to himself that said he wouldn’t “feel sorry for enjoying the f out of August, 2025.” I wish I were as wise as Timm. I did feel sorry for myself at times. But now that the seasons have turned, I’m grateful. My camera roll is overflowing with memories. I’m amazed by Louie’s growth—both physical and emotional—and thankful I truly soaked in such a special summer.
Because one thing I know for sure: Louie would never apologize for enjoying the f out of a summer. And that’s a lesson worth learning from her.
Now, as we move into this new season, the flowers are fading, and the trees have shed their leaves. Louie feels it too. She resists toques and mud suits the same way she once resisted naps. And now as I trade sunsets for screens, the scent of those roses lingers, tucked somewhere deep in my memory.
