The Space Between
Somewhere after sippy cups, but before curfews.
The In-Between
We only had our luggage. Carry-ons, even. No evidence of baby accoutrements—no car seats, NASA-designed sleep suits, or white-noise machines. The kids walked straight to their assigned row and settled in, selecting and pressing play on their own plane shows.
I still packed plane snacks, but there were no meltdowns, no desperate prayers for midair naps. I trusted no one would pee their pants.
Just a few rows away, my siblings and their spouses had the wild-eyed look of parents in the trenches. They stumbled off the plane with babies attached, toddler in tow, offering us a brief side-hug before racing to the car to salvage what was left of bedtime.
We’d just spent five days together under one roof, thanks to my parents' dream of a full-family vacation.
Same house, wildly different seasons.
I watched the diaper changes, tantrum negotiations, and bedtime battles from the comfortable edge. I made sandwiches. Folded laundry. Prepped dinner. Went on jogs. My kids played card games, slept in, and generally handled themselves.
I was just Aunt Jackie—or, as my niece insists, Uncle Jackie—dipping my toes into the chaos without being fully immersed.
“How did I even do that for an entire decade of my life?” I asked my mom one day as we sat, uninterrupted, beach chairs sinking in the sand.
“I know I loved a lot of it, but I can’t quite remember the details. And honestly? I can’t imagine going back.”“That’s how it works,” she laughed.
And maybe it is.
There’s something psychologically protective about not remembering every detail of the most demanding seasons. Our brains edit for survival.
But there’s also something profound about recognizing when you're standing in the in-between—watching your younger self walk by in the form of your sister wrestling a toddler into a rental car seat, and knowing—deep in your body—that you lived that too.
Liminal Space
In psychology, there’s a name for this: liminal space. It’s the threshold between one identity and the next.
I’m not the parent of babies anymore. But I’m not the parent of adults either. I’m somewhere in the middle. It can feel disorienting—like standing in a hallway between rooms. But it can also be a place of reflection, even relief.
This vacation gave me glimpses of both past and future.
I helped with my niece’s shoes and getting her swimmies on. I held her brother, a little meatball of a baby, while his mom made her breakfast. I respected my other nephew’s space, saying hi with a wave and then a head rub, slowly gaining on his turf so that by the end of the vacation, I could take his picture without absolute terror splayed across his face.
I saw my kids settle into the “big kid” group, loved hearing how my oldest two girls had helped Grandma and Grandpa with the babies during the precious two hours the sibling-parents escaped to happy hour, splurging on the extra-large frozen margarita for our priceless time away.
I got to hang out with my kids in the pool’s lazy river—chatting for a while before racing each other down the water slide and heading to the deep end to play “how many times can we throw the ball,” never once worried about drowning or missing a nap.
We swam in the ocean waves and I didn’t even have to hold their hands.
And I didn’t get to, either.
I didn’t get to feel their full body weight against mine as I rocked them to almost-sleep before carefully placing them in the pack-and-play at exactly 7 o’clock sharp, relieved to have made it through another day.
I didn’t get to see their chubby cheeks round in delight at a very first splash in the ocean.
I didn’t get to lift them from their crib in the morning, warm and puffy-faced, their hair damp with humid air and their arms reaching for me.
There’s the ache.
Holding Both
The truth is, liminal spaces stretch us. They hold grief and gratitude at once. I could feel it in the joy on my parents’ faces—seeing their family in motion, in every direction. The fun in learning new members of the family and seeing my siblings as really good parents. And I could feel it in the quiet heartbreak of time passing, of what is no longer mine to hold.
A Question for the Week
This week, try asking yourself:
Where might I be in the middle of something?
And can I stay there a little longer—long enough to feel it, before rushing toward what’s next?
You've captured all the emotions so eloquently. This continues throughout your life, the "liminal space" you've described, is so satisfying to relish in it, and it actually only gets better...
So well written, and so true. First spring break where the kids wanted to hang w other kids vs us… we did get some great days or moments of us 5, while acknowledging it will be less and less each yr.