I keep thinking about the summer before eighth grade.
It was 1993.
I was thirteen—the same age my kids are now—and if you had asked me what I was doing on any given Tuesday, I probably couldn’t have told you. The days all blurred together in the best possible way.
There were no notifications.
No group chats.
No endless scrolling.
Just long afternoons that seemed to stretch forever.
We rode our bikes without checking the weather first. We wandered into friends’ houses without texting to ask if it was okay. We drank from garden hoses, stayed outside until the streetlights came on, and somehow always found something to do with whatever happened to be lying around.
Boredom wasn’t something to escape. It was the beginning of an adventure.
Sometimes we sprawled across someone’s bedroom floor, listening to cassette tapes while flipping through Sassy, Teen, or YM magazines. Sometimes we spent hours perfecting hand claps, making friendship bracelets, or dreaming up dance routines we’d perform exactly once. Sometimes we sat on someone’s front porch for hours, talking about absolutely everything and absolutely nothing.
We watched movies we’d rented from the video store and rewound every VHS before returning it because that was simply what decent people did.
Life wasn’t perfect.
But it was wonderfully uncomplicated.
It’s Their Turn
Now I watch my own thirteen-year-olds heading into the summer before eighth grade, and I wonder what they’ll remember thirty years from now.
Will they remember the funny TikTok they watched for fifteen seconds?
Or will they remember laughing until their stomachs hurt while playing a card game around the kitchen table?
Will they remember another afternoon spent staring at a screen?
Or the feeling of sand between their toes, homemade ice cream after dinner, chasing the dog through the backyard, and driving with the windows down because the evening air finally cooled off?
I’m Not Against Technology
Technology isn’t the enemy. It lets them stay connected to friends, learn new things, and capture memories I’ll treasure forever.
But I can’t help wanting something else for them, too.
I want them to know the kind of summer that isn’t measured by battery percentage.
The kind where time slows down.
Where boredom is allowed.
Where imagination has room to breathe.
Where the best memories aren’t posted—they’re simply lived.
What I Hope They Remember
I want scraped knees and wet towels draped over porch railings. Library books with sandy pages. Popsicles that drip faster than you can eat them. Late-night games of flashlight tag. Board games that end in laughter and accusations of cheating. Fireflies in mason jars. Music playing from an old speaker while Dad grills burgers.
I want them to have at least a little bit of the summer I had.
Not because 1993 was better.
But because there was something beautiful about having nowhere to be, nothing to prove, and every reason to stay outside just a little longer.
A Summer Worth Remembering
They’re only thirteen once.
They’re only on the edge of eighth grade once.
And while I can’t send them back to the summer of 1993, maybe I can borrow a few pages from it.
Maybe this summer we’ll leave our phones inside a little more often.
Maybe we’ll choose bikes over screens.
Maybe we’ll let ourselves be bored long enough for something wonderful to happen.
Because someday, thirty years from now, I hope they’ll look back on the summer before eighth grade and smile.
Not because it looked like mine.
But because it felt just as free.
Fry, Party of Five 