“Time Moves in Seasons Here”
Before I became a mom in Japan, I thought of time in the usual way—days, weeks, months. Deadlines, holidays, birthdays. A steady, neutral march forward.
But once I started raising kids here, I realized: time doesn’t just pass—it blooms, sweats, rustles, and shivers.
Time in Japan is deeply seasonal. It’s not just something you count; it’s something you live through. And when you’re a parent, it shapes everything—from what you cook to what your child wears to the emotional texture of your daily life.
I never expected parenting to feel so… different each month.
In April, I feel hopeful and nervous, standing at the school gate for entrance ceremonies under falling sakura.
By July, I’m sweaty and slightly delirious, trying to keep my kids hydrated and entertained in 95% humidity.
In October, I’m packing tiny sports drinks for undoukai and Googling how to remove grass stains from white bloomers.
Come January, we’re layering up in fleece and writing New Year’s cards with cold fingers.
It’s not just about weather.
It’s about mood.
About rituals.
About invisible expectations that shift with the calendar.
There’s a beautiful predictability to it—each season brings its own “parenting to-do list.” And while that can be comforting, it can also be quietly overwhelming.
Spring means new beginnings—and an avalanche of name-stamping every sock, crayon, and fork.
Summer means freedom—but also homework diaries, heatstroke alerts, and endless laundry.
Autumn is performance season—school plays, sports days, and parent observations.
Winter? Survival mode—cold lunches, influenza warnings, and kids waking up before sunrise thanks to early bedtimes.
And through all of it, moms (and often moms especially) are expected to manage the flow—not just practically, but emotionally. To create “seasonal memories,” maintain traditions, and adjust seamlessly, like we’re flipping the pages of a very detailed cultural planner.
I didn’t grow up like this.
Where I’m from, seasons existed, yes—but they didn’t structure parenting the way they do here. We didn’t have seasonal crafts at school or monthly uniform changes. I didn’t grow up changing shoes by season, or receiving newsletters with drawings of radishes and persimmons telling me what kids would be harvesting next week.
And while there’s something deeply charming—and sometimes magical—about it, it took me years to stop feeling like I was always a step behind. Everyone else seemed to just know:
- When to switch to summer uniforms.
- When the bamboo shoots were in season (and how to cook them).
- When to buy rain gear before it sold out in June.
- When to register for the omocha kinenbi (toy anniversary day? Yes, that’s a thing!).
This blog post isn’t about complaining. It’s about noticing. And about giving voice to something I wish someone had told me when I first became a mother here:
“Japanese parenting doesn’t follow a single rhythm—it follows four.”
And each one carries its own mix of joy, fatigue, pressure, and beauty.
I want to walk through them with you—not as an expert, but as a fellow parent learning, forgetting, and learning again. I want to talk about how cherry blossoms can bring both wonder and anxiety, how summer festivals bring joy and sensory overload, how the smell of autumn can feel like relief, and how January brings both cozy traditions and the pressure of “starting strong.”
This is the first post in a seasonal parenting series where I’ll share:
- What each season feels like as a parent in Japan (beyond the calendar).
- How cultural expectations shift month to month.
- What routines, school events, and subtle pressures rise and fall with the temperature.
- And how I’ve learned to both embrace and push back against the rhythm, depending on what my family needs.
Whether you’re new to parenting in Japan, grew up here, or are just curious about what it means to live by the seasons with children in tow—I hope this post helps you feel seen.
Because you’re not the only one who forgets the bug spray in July.
You’re not the only one who dreads the April paperwork.
And you’re definitely not the only one who sometimes wants to skip tanabata and just stay inside with frozen gyoza.
Spring — The Season of Fresh Starts and Full Calendars
“The Cherry Blossoms Are Blooming. So Is the Anxiety.”
When people picture spring in Japan, they think of cherry blossoms. Pink petals floating through the air like confetti, quiet strolls under trees, sweet sakura mochi, maybe even a picnic bento on a blue tarp. And sure, that happens. But if you’re a parent in Japan?
Spring is less hanami and more hurry-me.
Because spring here isn’t just a season—it’s a full reset button. And for moms, that means one thing: everything starts over.
🌸 The New Year That Isn’t January
Unlike many countries where the calendar year starts in January, Japan resets in April. It’s when schools begin, companies onboard new hires, and society seems to collectively sharpen its pencils.
For parents, this means:
- School entrance ceremonies (nyūen-shiki / nyūgaku-shiki)
- Reassignments at daycare or hoikuen
- New homeroom teachers, class lists, and seating charts
- Uniform size changes (good luck finding the right randoseru cover)
- PTA meetings, orientations, and the dreaded mountains of paperwork
It’s exciting. But it’s also intense.
There’s this unspoken message: Get it right now, or risk being behind all year.
So we race to fill in allergy forms, label every sock, sew indoor slippers, and stock up on tissues and shoe bags. We line up at department stores to get the “right” shade of pastel lunch cloth. We translate new kanji in the class newsletter with Google Lens at midnight, hoping we didn’t just agree to bake 50 cookies by Friday.
And somewhere in between all this… we try to enjoy the flowers.
📅 April’s Emotional Load
Everyone talks about how beautiful spring is in Japan. But for parents, it’s also deeply emotional.
Your child moves up a grade, or maybe starts daycare for the first time. They wave goodbye in a new uniform, slightly too big, their backpack bouncing behind them. You watch from the gate, heart swelling and cracking at the same time.
And then you go home and realize—you now have an entirely new system to figure out.
In spring, everything is firsts. And every first comes with feelings:
- The first time your child walks into a new classroom alone
- The first time they cry at drop-off
- The first time a teacher calls home with a concern
- The first time you forget the “spare towel” rule and feel like a bad mom
Some days you feel proud. Some days you feel lost. Some days you just want someone to tell you, “You’re doing okay.”
🍱 Bento-Box Pressure (Now with Seasonal Guilt!)
Ah yes, the springtime bento box revival.
Even if your child had a packed lunch before, April somehow ups the ante. You start seeing other moms post carefully arranged cherry-blossom-shaped carrots on Instagram. The pressure creeps in quietly.
“Is mine too plain?”
“Should I try the flower-cut sausages again?”
“Will the teacher judge if I just pack tamagoyaki and rice?”
I once overheard a group of moms comparing their hanami bento (the special picnic lunch you bring to the school flower viewing party). I wanted to melt into the pavement. I had packed cheese sticks.
Over time, I’ve realized something: seasonal bento is more about show than nutrition. And while it can be fun, it’s also okay to opt out. Your child will not remember whether the broccoli had eyes. They will remember that you sat with them under a tree and shared a meal.
🧼 The Spring Cleaning That’s Not Just About Dust
There’s also a cultural push in spring to “start fresh.” Think: clothing swaps, house organization, meal planning, even personal grooming. I once read a Japanese mom blog that said, “April is the season for resetting your home and self.”
Which is beautiful in theory. But when you’re already managing drop-offs, transitions, and emotional wobbles, trying to reorganize your spice rack can push you into meltdown territory.
There’s a phrase I heard from a Japanese friend: “haru wa kokoro ga yureyasui” — spring makes your heart waver easily.
And it’s true.
The air is hopeful. But also heavy. There’s joy, but also nostalgia. Excitement, but also anxiety. It’s like the whole country is holding its breath—waiting to see if this fresh start will be the “right” one.
💌 Permission to Go Slow
It took me a few years to realize: I don’t have to sprint into spring. I can walk.
I can let my kids take time to adjust to their new class.
I can keep meals simple during transition weeks.
I can say “I don’t understand” at orientation meetings without shame.
I can opt out of some events. Or show up late. Or just bring store-bought snacks.
I can let cherry blossoms be something I enjoy—not a background prop for a picture-perfect life.
And you can too.
🧭 What I Do Now (Instead of Panicking)
Here’s what spring looks like for us these days:
- I keep a “Spring Survival Folder” with all the reusable school forms and allergy notes from past years.
- I buy two sizes of socks in advance and stash them in a drawer.
- I block out one Sunday in early April for “No-Plan Day”—a day where no one has to do anything or go anywhere.
- I remind myself (and my kids) that it’s okay to cry during transition month.
- I teach my children this phrase: “Shinsetsu wa, isshun de ii” — kindness only takes a moment. Because everyone is a little fragile in spring.
Spring in Japan is breathtaking. But don’t let the beauty fool you—it’s also complex.
It’s a season of ceremony, yes.
But also of mess, of adjustment, of letting go of what was.
It’s okay to stumble as you step into this new parenting year.
It’s okay to feel emotional, tired, even resentful.
It’s okay to be human.
Because you are. And so are your children. And honestly? That’s the best possible place to start from.
Summer — The Season of Sweat, Homework Diaries, and Night Festivals
“When the Kids Are on Vacation (But You’re Still on Duty)”
There’s a certain kind of silence in Japan’s summer afternoons. The kind that’s thick with humidity, cicada cries, and the distant clang of a neighborhood baseball bat. It’s a silence that comes right after lunch, when the air conditioner is humming and someone is inevitably saying, “Atsui ne…”
Summer in Japan is beautiful. It’s also brutal.
And for moms? It’s a season of contradictions:
🌞 Freedom, but with a schedule taped to the fridge.
🍉 Joyful traditions, but with endless prep.
💤 Break time, but with no actual break.
Let’s talk about it.
🏖️ The Myth of Summer “Vacation”
When I first heard that Japanese schools have about 40 days off for summer vacation, I thought: “Great! Time to relax.”
Reader, I was wrong.
Because while the kids may be on vacation, moms are suddenly responsible for:
- All meals, snacks, and hydration
- Sunscreen, bug spray, and heatstroke prevention
- Managing a mountain of natsu yasumi no shukudai (summer homework)
- Planning “productive” activities so your child doesn’t “fall behind”
- Booking travel (if you’re brave), navigating obon family obligations, or—if you’re working—juggling childcare coverage
It’s not a break. It’s a second shift. In a sauna.
📓 The Infamous “Summer Diary”
Let’s pause here to honor one of Japan’s most unique summer traditions: the natsu no seikatsu nikki (daily summer journal).
Every year, your child gets a booklet where they must:
- Record the day’s weather
- Write what they did
- Track their wake-up and bedtimes
- Reflect on their mood
- Sometimes even include a sketch of their meals or activities
At first, it sounds adorable. But by mid-August, this journal becomes a battleground. One where your child insists, “I don’t remember what I did five days ago,” and you’re Googling what the weather was last Wednesday.
There’s also:
- Kanji practice pages
- Math drills
- Reading logs
- Art projects
- Handwritten thank-you letters
- Science experiments (that require grocery-store scavenger hunts)
I once had to recreate a failed celery-growing experiment the night before school started—because mold had overtaken the original one. At midnight. In August.
Moms joke, not jokingly, that summer homework is actually for parents.
🧊 The Heat. The HUMIDITY.
Summer in Japan doesn’t just get hot—it wraps around you like a wet futon. You’re never dry. Your skin is sticky, your laundry won’t dry properly, and your child is always one layer overdressed because they insist on wearing a Pokémon hoodie “just in case.”
Even short walks become logistical challenges:
- Water bottles (mizutō)? Check.
- Wet towels in zip bags? Check.
- UV arm covers? Check.
- Ice packs in the randoseru? Maybe.
- Praying for cloud cover? Always.
If your child is in daycare or hoikuen, there’s also the “mizuasobi setto”—a bag filled with swimwear, two towels, sandals, and extra clothes, which must be rotated, washed, and returned daily.
The result? Laundry. Every. Single. Day.
And don’t even get me started on taifuu keihō (typhoon warnings). You plan for a rare family outing—and then boom: weather alert, everything canceled, back inside with cranky kids.
🎆 The Magic of Festivals
Okay, now the good part.
Because despite all the sweat and stress, summer in Japan also offers some of the most magical parenting moments I’ve experienced.
The bon-odori festival in our neighborhood, where kids wear yukata and chase goldfish in tiny inflatable pools.
The sound of taiko drums echoing through the humid air.
The sparkle in my daughter’s eyes when she held her first sparkler (senko hanabi) in the dark.
The pride my son felt after catching a plastic beetle from a spinning kiddie pool.
The shared joy of biting into a juicy suika (watermelon) and declaring it “the best one this year.”
These are the nights that make the sticky days worth it.
I used to worry about being “behind” on summer homework or not planning enough educational activities. But I’ve learned: festivals are education.
They teach tradition, community, confidence, and joy. They teach sensory memory—those little moments that stay long after the homework has faded.
👘 Working Moms and the “Summer Juggle”
If you’re a working mom in Japan during summer? I salute you.
The pressure is intense:
- Some daycares have shorter hours in August
- Many after-school care programs (gakudō) are packed
- Grandparents often live far away (or expect you to travel to them)
- Companies rarely give long breaks unless you’re in education
So what happens?
Moms get creative. We tag-team with partners. We split days. We arrange for kids to stay with friends or relatives. We lean on frozen meals and iPads. We cross our fingers that no one gets sick.
And through it all, we still feel guilty. Because guilt doesn’t melt, even in 38°C heat.
🍧 Summer Survival Tips (That Actually Helped)
After a few too many summers of sweating and stressing, I’ve started doing a few things differently:
- Set realistic goals: 60% of homework by mid-August. The rest? Bribery.
- Chill on the cooking: Cold somen, cucumbers, and convenience store chicken are meals.
- Let boredom happen: It’s not my job to entertain them 24/7. Boredom breeds creativity.
- Pick one “core memory” event: A small festival, a water park day, or even a backyard firework night.
- Schedule “no-plan” days: Unstructured, slow mornings where we do nothing and it’s glorious.
- Outsource what you can: Homework café, babysitter for a half-day, split responsibilities with a fellow mom.
💬 What Summer Taught Me
Summer parenting in Japan taught me to stop expecting rest—and instead focus on rhythm.
There is a rhythm in the chaos:
- The slow mornings
- The mid-afternoon crashes
- The joy of a popsicle after bath time
- The long twilights where kids stay up too late, laughing in their pajamas
It’s a rhythm you can’t always control. But you can dance with it.
And maybe that’s enough.
Autumn — The Season of Sports Days, Sweet Potatoes, and Sudden Sadness
“When the Air Turns Crisp and Everything Feels a Little Bit More Real”
Autumn arrives slowly in Japan. One day, you wake up and realize the cicadas have gone quiet. The air smells different. Morning shadows grow longer. And your children—once sticky with summer sweat—begin asking for blankets at night.
In Japanese parenting, autumn is the season of reset.
But it’s also a season of surprising emotions. Just when you think things might get easier… something shifts again.
🏃♀️ Sports Day: The Most Emotional Event You Weren’t Prepared For
If you’ve never cried at your kid’s undōkai (sports day), are you even a mom in Japan?
There’s something about it—maybe it’s the sight of 100 tiny heads in matching hats doing synchronized radio calisthenics to a song that hasn’t changed since 1963. Or maybe it’s your own child’s nervous face before a relay race. Or the part where they lock eyes with you during the parent-child dance and grin like you’re their whole world.
Sports day is:
- Loud
- Chaotic
- Ridiculously early (arrival at 7:30 am!)
- Packed with rules, announcements, and tiny chairs
- And somehow, overwhelmingly moving
You pack a bento with care. You wear a sunhat even though it’s October. You stake out a spot with your picnic sheet at 6:00 am like a seasoned warrior.
And when your child runs across that dusty track, arms pumping, face red with effort—you feel it. That tightness in your chest. That mix of pride, nostalgia, and oh no they’re growing up too fast.
It hits harder than you expect.
🍠 Sweet Potatoes and “Imo Hori”: Simple Joys of Autumn Childhood
Autumn parenting isn’t just about events. It’s about tiny moments.
Like the day your child comes home with dirt under their nails and a slightly smashed satsumaimo (sweet potato) proudly held in both hands. “We dug it ourselves!” they shout. Imo hori (potato digging) might sound mundane, but it’s a rite of passage in kindergartens across Japan.
Other autumn joys:
- Mushroom and chestnut-themed school lunches
- Drawing ginkgo leaves during art time
- Reading seasonal picture books about harvest and animals preparing for winter
- Practicing songs for the upcoming school recital
There’s a softness to fall routines. After the overstimulation of summer, everything seems calmer. More predictable.
And yet…
🍂 The Unexpected Sadness of Autumn
Here’s something I didn’t expect as a mother in Japan: autumn sadness.
Maybe it’s the shorter days. Maybe it’s the realization that another school year is almost over. Maybe it’s the way your child starts writing more legibly or tying their own shoes without asking for help. Maybe it’s the kōyō—those flaming red maple leaves that always seem to fall too quickly.
But somewhere in the middle of pumpkin decorations and cozy meals, there’s a tug. A reminder that time is passing. That your child is not a baby anymore.
Some moms I know feel relief in autumn—less heat, more structure. Others, especially stay-at-home moms, feel a little lost. The rush of summer parenting has passed. But winter isolation hasn’t arrived yet. You’re in between.
And in that quiet in-between space, feelings rise.
🏫 The Pressure to Finish Strong
If spring is about beginnings and summer about survival, autumn is when the pressure to “do it right” returns.
It’s:
- Test season for older kids
- Application deadlines for kindergartens and school transfers
- Final parent-teacher conferences before the school year ends in March
- Preparing for the school recital (happyoukai)
- Attending cultural days (bunkasai) if your child is in elementary
For working moms, autumn is often the season when the year’s accumulated fatigue starts catching up—right when the year-end rush is about to begin.
It’s also the season when you compare.
“She’s already reading chapter books.”
“He started piano and soccer this term.”
“I should sign them up for more…”
But here’s the thing: autumn doesn’t demand perfection. It’s asking for presence.
🛏️ Slowing Down Without Falling Behind
One thing I’ve learned from Japanese parenting culture is how deeply seasons are tied to rhythm.
Autumn reminds me that slowing down isn’t the same as doing less.
It’s doing more of what matters.
Like:
- Saying yes to one more bedtime book because the blankets are warm and the room is quiet
- Lighting a candle during bath time just because
- Walking home through the park even though it’s already dark by 5:00 pm
- Making simple nabe together and letting your child choose the veggies
In these moments, you start to see that parenting is not about keeping up. It’s about tuning in.
🌰 A Mother’s Autumn Resolution
This autumn, I’m trying something new.
Instead of obsessing over checklists, I’m asking myself:
- What will they remember about this season?
- What can I let go of to be more present?
- What tiny tradition can I start this year?
Maybe it’s an evening walk under the gingko trees.
Maybe it’s roasting sweet potatoes in foil over the stove.
Maybe it’s writing them a letter they’ll read in spring.
We often talk about how children are changing with each season. But we don’t always name how motherhood changes too.
And autumn, with all its color and melancholy, reminds me of one truth:
We are all in transition.
🌀 Final Reflection: Parenting in Seasons, Not in Systems
Living in Japan has taught me to see parenting as a seasonal practice—not just a logistical one.
Each season brings:
- A new pace
- A different kind of pressure
- Unique memories
- Fresh chances to connect, adjust, or simply endure
You don’t have to get every season “right.”
You just have to live them with your whole self—messy, tired, loving, unsure.
And then one day, without realizing it, your child will be taller.
They’ll walk a little further ahead.
And you’ll wonder how it all went by so fast.
But for now?
Autumn is here.
Let’s walk slowly through it.
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