I packed a book and my journal before going to the dock for a swim.

No, that’s not quite accurate. My intention was not to swim, for swimming signifies a purposeful aerobic activity. As I am not training for the Ironman, my idea of swimming means getting a pool noodle, cradling it behind my shoulders and arms, and floating like a rubber duck in a bathtub.

Just a few minutes of occasional water time, I thought, to keep me cool in the 90-plus degree heat. I would read my book and write in my journal in between the plunges. 

I would relax and get something done at the same time. Restful productivity.

Oldest Daughter went with me because it was her idea to spend the afternoon at the lake. Youngest Daughter was with her boyfriend. Sweet Husband had a project going.

How often do I get alone time with my twenty-year-old daughter? It’s rare these days. She is working this summer, paying for her rent, and asking to cover her car insurance when it’s due again.

Could I ask for a more responsible young woman as a daughter? 

She is due to receive her bachelor’s of fine arts degree in May of 2026. She already has one internship and might take on another one this fall, while enrolled in a full load of classes.

There we sat, in two old folding chairs covered in cobwebs, for it was the first time we had been to the lake this summer. 

The water reflected the color of the trees, rich midsummer greens that shifted in the sun’s rays: the overall impression was a blend of olive and sage, with occasional deeper flashes of forest green and emerald.

I was letting the sunscreen activate on my legs, neck, and face. My long sleeve rash guard covered the rest of my upper body.

My daughter was sitting at the dock’s edge, staring into the water’s verdant depths, while we both listened to the simultaneous whirr of insects singing in our ears and the distant roar of the boats’ engines on the main body of the water. 

“Mom, did you pack some watermelon?”

I was holding the bowl on my lap, both to cool my legs and to serve as a barrier between my greasy skin and the pages of my journal. I had time to record a few words while the chemicals did their job.

She snacked while I wrote, but eventually the muggy heat drove us into the water.

I left my sunglasses and hat on the dock and leaped out as far as I could, plunging into the lake as the welcoming water enveloped my body. A flurry of bubbles surrounded me, as escaping pockets of air from my clothing, my lungs, and my hair found their way to the surface before I did. I emerged, already feeling refreshed, as I swam to the dock to collect my hat, glasses, and float noodle.

Oldest Daughter wasn’t far behind, although her method of water entry was far quieter than mine. She managed to jump in the water and land on her own float without getting a single hair of her head wet. 

We floated, and we talked.

We were quiet, and we talked.

We thought, and then we talked.

I reminded her of the times when she and her sister were small, and the time at the lake was nothing more than judging their jumps and spins as if they were Olympic athletes.

I would shout, “A ten out of ten!” 

And then the next kid would go: “A ten out of ten!”

“Mom, you have to pick a winner,” and they would climb the ladder, ready to go again.

“Why don’t you jump together?” I would suggest.

Yes, do something together, act like sisters, and please don’t require me to think. 

After all, they had on life jackets. They had taken swimming lessons. Let me read my book in peace.

Be independent. Play by yourself.

Our talk today was more serious. How are taxes calculated? There is a window on her car that might be leaking. She had the option to start saving for retirement at her current internship through a 403(b) plan–she knew it was not a 401(k)–but she chose not to. 

She is only twenty, after all.

She does not want children. She says they would not make her life more fulfilled.

She’s said this for a while now. It’s nothing new. Cats and dogs will be kids enough for her, she says.

I didn’t write another line in my journal the rest of the afternoon, nor did I read my book.

We took a short break for a watermelon snack, but all other time was spent in the water together, talking and listening, resting and reflecting.

We returned home to eat dinner as a family before going our separate ways this week: Youngest Daughter to a week-long national competition, Oldest Daughter back to her summer rental and internship, Sweet Husband and I to our respective jobs.

What will Sweet Husband and I do this week, with both kids gone, other than work?

Watch Jaws in honor of its 50th anniversary. Start streaming “Season 5” of The Chosen. Take care of the dogs and the cat.

I will read my book, reflect in my journal, and write my daily posts.

He will study how to restore a 1968 Ford Bronco 289. He wants to paint it sky blue. I figure I’ll be writing about it soon.

We will all be doing our own things, and trying somehow, in the midst of it all, to make our lives mean something.

Each of us: working, planning, dreaming.

We’ll watch our kids be independent and play by themselves.

It’s a hard thing to see, when they’re at the jumping-off point of life, but this is the way it’s supposed to be.

And if a dog or cat or two is involved, then that’s fine with me.

I can’t think of a better way to be fulfilled.