Kristen Friesen: Summer's rush

It's a question every person must ask. And, as difficult as it is to answer, its current can't be ignored. Not only can it drag us under, but it is very able to leave us gasping for breath and full of regrets.

So, is it quality time or quantity time that counts?

It's a question I ask myself several times a day. Especially lately. With ball games, play rehearsals, piano lessons, family obligations, stories to write and children to raise, I'm halfway through summer and we haven't slowed down one iota. I think I hear the rush of water, and I'm not talkin' basements, backyards or overloaded sewers. Still, it stinks.

Not so long ago I was complaining to my mom about trying to stay afloat.

"Oh, I remember," she said.

"I just can't be in three places at once," I moaned. "Things weren't so hurried when we were kids. Remember when Dad would surprise us at the pool after work?"

"Oh, I remember," she said again.

"I wish it were like that today," I said.

She was quiet for a minute.

"It wasn't really like that then," she said. "Your dad passed up promotions so he wouldn't have to travel and worked through lunch so he could spend an hour at the pool."

"Really?"

"Really," she said. "And so we lived in our house long after we'd outgrown it, shopped at garage sales and drove cars that kept your dad tinkering on Saturdays."

"I guess I didn't notice," I said.

"Good," she said. "Kids shouldn't."

Sharing a room with my sisters meant whispers and giggles when the room was too sticky for sleep. Garage sales were weekend adventures. And my dad had me convinced he drove old cars intentionally -- so he wouldn't have to worry about the upholstery when our Goodrich Dairy ice cream cones melted faster than we could lap them up.

While my parents stretched every dollar to ensure we were well-rounded and showed up whenever it came time for "showin' off," I can't remember the details of a single ball game or piano recital. What lingers are memories of the every day variety: hot sand between my fingers in the sandbox built by Dad, picking cherries in the backyard for Mom's cobbler, the weight of my dad's tools in my hands when I was his helper, the sweet remnants of chocolate on mom's metal beaters and worn carpet beneath my belly during long games of Monopoly on rainy days. Having Dad home on weekends assured me a spot on his lap Saturday morning -- my head nestled beneath his chin, breathing in his coffee as he read the paper. 

Our vacations were never exotic and, until high school, I'd never boarded a plane. We had my grandparents in Iowa, muddy Nebraska lakes and Dad's little boat, a couple of trips to Colorado spread out over two decades and World's of Fun just a few hours away. That we never ventured past bordering states didn't matter. At least not then.

But today is a different story. The quality time/quantity time song and dance is a haunting melody that has me jitter-bugging through summer when I ought to be soft-shoeing at the most...and stopping to smell the roses at the least.

And summer activities are endless: to learn something new, perfect something old, get ahead of the class, take home a craft, learn about life a century ago, join a team -- or three, and debut in one of a dozen productions. What parent wouldn't move heaven and earth to give their child such opportunities?

Well, mine.

It seems my parents are still teaching me a thing or two, like how the first question begs another. Just how can quality time count if the amount of it is insufficient?

So, I'm planning to slow down and spread myself a little thicker, at least in the role of parenting. And I'll do that in July -- right after the play, softball season, vacation Bible school, horse-back riding classes, piano lessons and a few little trips we have planned. Okay, make it August.

Shhh … is it just me, or do you hear rushing water?

Kristen Friesen is a wife and mother of three girls and lives in Grand Island. She grew up in a house on Cottonwood Drive in Lincoln, where she learned much of what she passes on in this column. Contact her at hervoice@theindependent.com.