When I was a child, I remember that each summer there was one great movie to see. Some years it was a “Superman” flick, some summers it was “Star Wars,” and other summer box office smashes weren’t part of a series, such as the 1986 hit “Top Gun.”

But this summer — just as there are 20 different stores selling children’s clothing — there are nearly as many family oriented movies. When it’s 90 degrees outside at 6 p.m., or raining cats and dogs August-style, I like nothing more than walking into a cool movie theater for a couple of hours.

So do my children. But last week at the movies, I made a discovery that has much more to do with my parenting, than it has do with “The Simpsons” or “Ratatouille.” My crew was thrilled when I offered to take them to see “Underdog,” a recent release about an ordinary beagle turned superdog. As we stood in line to buy the tickets, it dawned on me that although I was cool and in a confined space with my four young children, I was about to sit through a 90 minute movie that was going to be mediocre at best. Happy children, maybe. But what about me?

I noticed that “Hairspray” was playing at the same time. Could I have happy children and a happy me?

“Guess what?” I told the crew in a chirpy voice. “We’re going to see ‘Hairspray’ and you’re going to love it.” Remarkably, no one objected. And, we did all love it. We’ve been humming the tunes all week and talking about integration in America in the 1960s.

The turn of events that evening reminded me of a conversation I had with a close friend a few days earlier. We were talking about how much we both loved hiking and how this hobby had been shelved since the arrival of our children.

“I just can’t imagine taking my kids hiking and listening to them complain,” I said. “And I can’t really leave them long enough to go for a decent hike.”

My friend described a hike she had taken recently with her three young children and another family in Westchester County’s largest park, Ward Pound Ridge Reservation. “We started hiking, and while the older two didn’t complain, my youngest one almost immediately had to go to the bathroom. He didn’t just need to pee,” she said. “Everyone else went ahead, and by the time I caught up with them, the hike was nearly finished. It was exhausting.”

This did not sound appealing to me.

But the more we talked about hiking, the more I realized how much I missed it. When I was 17 years old, I caught the hiking bug after trekking for five weeks through the Talkeetna Mountains in southern Alaska. In the permanent daylight of July, I saw wolves and bears, eagles and caribou. There were bogs and rockslides, hailstorms, and days of relentless rain. I arrived back in New York pale, emaciated, and eager to return to the backcountry.

When I was first married, I dragged my husband on hikes. He complied as newlyweds often do, but it was clear that the athletic endeavors he loved involved winners and losers — not backpacks, summits, and compasses.

When we had children a few years later, I remember absentmindedly flipping through the REI and Eastern Mountain Sports catalogs that still arrived and seeing the baby carriers that parents used to lug their little ones up the mountain. It looked dreamy. I don’t think I had enough energy to even order the backpack — let alone pack it and organize a hike.

But nearly a decade later, what about my love for hiking? Just as I realized at the movies that my own enjoyment doesn’t need to be compromised by my instincts to first satisfy my children, I, too, recognized the value of my own extracurricular interests, regardless of whether they involved my children.

Parents of my generation often sacrifice too much of themselves, presumably for the sake of their children. In the midst of the chaos and exhaustion of raising children, it’s difficult to see that ultimately, this does not benefit our children — or us. There is a great virtue in reminding each other that we have an obligation to pursue our own passions; and that taking the time to engage in these interests serves as a valuable lesson to our children.

My friend and I pledged, then and there, to go hiking. A few days later, we escaped for the morning to the Rockefeller State Park Preserve in nearby North Tarrytown. I was wrong. I can leave my children long enough to go for a decent hike.

The Preserve, more than 1,200 acres, is spectacular, and has miles upon miles of well-marked trails. There were stunning lakes and rivers, wetlands and woodlands. Wild turkeys roamed the trails, as did all sorts of colorful birds.

When I returned home, sweaty and exhausted, my children wanted to know what the hike was like. Maybe I’ll take the older ones with me next time.

Maybe.

sarasberman@aol.com