Summer holidays are eagerly anticipated by nearly everyone, a time guaranteed to be full of joy and laughter. We dream of long, relaxed days ahead, idle hours with a freedom from urgency. Days at the beach, no early morning rush, time to breathe and reboot, and quality family time without the usual routine. The reality is, of course, so different. There are difficult moments with fighting and moaning—“There’s nothing to do!” “I don’t want to go to camp!”—and yet also the potential for maternal awakening.

This recent story from a friend, whom I’ll call Andrea, is one we moms or parents can all relate to: Andrea’s 12-year-old twins, Steff and Cindy, and her 8-year-old son, Richie, finished school a week ago. They were leaving a day later for their annual two-week trip to see family out of town.

We all have our own version of this scene. Andrea is nagging the twins to pack their bags. The girls are still in their beds at midday on their phones, Steff complaining of a stomachache while Cindy, who is usually cooperative, starts packing. Suddenly, bedlam erupts.

“Mom, where is that blue T-shirt with the sun design on it? I haven’t seen it for months!”

“The turquoise one with black stripes? Honey, I’m so sorry, I shrunk it in the dryer and forgot to tell you.”

“Oh, Mom, that was my favorite top.” (Tears begin.) “I can’t believe that you didn’t tell me. That’s the one Evie and I both got before she left for the West Coast. We made a pact that we would wear them when we started college together and were roommates. How could you do this to me?” (Hysterical sobbing.)

“I’m so sorry, Cindy.” (Trying to hold herself together.)

“Mom, you only think about yourself. What do you do all day anyway? Can’t you even do laundry?” (Screams intensify.)

Then Steff joins in. “Shut up, Cindy, you’re giving me a headache. Who cares about that old top anyway? I’m sick of hearing about you and stupid Evie. I’m glad she’s gone. You two used to keep me up all night.”

“You’re just jealous because I actually have friends. You’re such a bitch. I’m never speaking to you again, ever.”

“As if I care.”

Andrea leaves the room boiling, yelling from the door to her daughters, “I can’t stand this—this is the third fight today. I’ve had enough! It’s meant to be holiday time for me also. You’re both selfish, ungrateful brats.”

At that exact moment, she hears a crash downstairs. “Richie! What did I say about football in the house?”

“Sorry, Mom, I broke that old brown vase. You know, the one on the mantelpiece.”

“Oh, Richie, that’s the vase Nan left me, it had so much meaning for me.”

“Oh crap, Mom, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to break it or call it old.” He gives her a big hug and tells her that he’s going to save up and buy her a new one. “Mom, I know it won’t be the same, but it will be from me.”

These two interactions of Andrea’s illustrate what I mean by maternal ambivalence. With Richie, it’s less complicated. He’s little, cute, and innocent. Their relationship is straightforward, with none of that hormonal angst and attitude that the girls give her. Her anger and frustration at his carelessness toward her prized object are both unfair and fair. He didn’t mean to do it, and he needs to be more careful. And really, the vase is just a thing, no matter how many memories it holds. The way he defuses the situation, hugging her and showing he cares, moves her. She takes a moment to think and access all her feelings. Yes, she’s annoyed by his carelessness and the broken vase. But he is really something. Willing to spend his allowance on her. She’s flooded with overwhelming love, that melting moment. This is her experience of ambivalence—the dark feelings and the love. She is refueled, her love strengthened. She thinks, “What a son I have.”

The fight with her twins infuriates her; she feels put upon and triggered. Then she thinks back to her fights with her own sister and feels regretful. Why did I have to scream? She feels like she also behaved like a 12-year-old, so there was no adult left in the room. It’s not so easy being a hormonal adolescent, and being a twin, and…

Andrea is struck once again by what a different mom she is to each of her children.

She heads to the twins’ room to model better behavior, some compassion, and understanding. She thinks, “I’ll tell them it’s difficult for me when they fight, and that they could try to be more respectful to me and each other. Next time I’ll do better.” This mothering stuff, it doesn’t come with a handbook; it’s a continual learning curve. I need to stop and think more calmly next time, to count to 10, to respond and not react.

As Andrea enters, she sees her daughters on Cindy’s bed, giggling at a TikTok video together. This vision stuns her. Any dark feelings are dissolved, and her heart melts. She’s full of love. Again. She smiles and quickly closes the door. She’s ready to face another day or even the afternoon ahead. More importantly, she recognizes her own maternal ambivalence, her capacity to experience all her feelings—the light ones and the dark—and to learn from them equally. They continually present us with a new opportunity to understand our mothering.

We both laughed when Andrea finished her story, wondering aloud, “Is this really what holiday time is meant to be?” Then she checked herself. “What planet am I living on? This is on me, the adult in the room, not just the parent. I need to keep my own expectations in line with the truths of daily life.”

Much like the unmet dreams of summer vacation and their reality.