My brother and I are sitting outside on his patio furniture. One of his teen daughters sits across from us, not paying us any attention. The other is in town with her new boyfriend. We turn our attention to my daughter, just two years old and crawling around on the outdoor sofa beside her cousin.
"It goes by so fast." My brother says, and there's a bitterness in the way he says it. There's passion and sincerity too, but more than anything else there's a palpable sense of longing.
How many times had I heard a parent say that over the years? How many times had I (at least inwardly) rolled my eyes at the thought, shrugged it off as something adults say to pass the time like talking about the weather?
Now a father myself, I know exactly what that statement means. It's a warning. It's an attempt to alert us new parents that this won't last forever, that you need to hold tight to your kids now and treasure every moment - even the frustrating ones - because it will one day be gone and you'll be begging for it back again.
It's also, I think, a plea. It's begging time to slow for just a little while, maybe give us a rewind button so we can hold our kids again after they've grown too large for such things. It's the thought that maybe, just maybe if we say it enough, somehow we will be transported back to a time before the world drew them away from us, a time when we were everything to them.
When we were most important.
The irony is that as a parent of two young children, I already know this. I know it and despite that knowledge I let the time pass by anyway. I get tired of their energy, I get bored with the things they want to watch on TV (darn you Blippi), I want to scroll on Facebook or work on some stupid blog (hehe) in my spare time instead of watch Logan furiously clack two action figures together as they "fight" or listen to "Wheels on the Bus" for the three-hundredth time with Abby.
Labor Day Weekend: I spent most of the long weekend hanging out with Nikki and Abby. Logan was at his dad's for the weekend. We had Abby's 2nd birthday party, which Logan did attend. We didn't do much otherwise, mostly sat on the bed and watched Abby's little sing-along videos on Youtube, and walked in the park a couple of times. An unproductive weekend, really. But, as I handed my daughter over to her mom Tuesday morning, as I watched her little face bouncing to the cadence of Nikki's footsteps while being carried toward the car, that feeling hit. Most parents know the one. A heavy, sinking feeling. Longing. Knowing that time is perpetually changing, always moving forward, and all we can do is smile and wave as it walks out the door. I found myself hearing, of all things, a country song that gets me every time I hear it (despite the fact that it's corny as hell and I would have laughed it off the radio when I was younger, before I had kids) called "It Won't Be Like This For Long."
I remember a story my mother told me about when my oldest brother started school. I'm probably going to mangle this a little bit, but it went something like this: She dropped my brother off that first day and watched him walk up the steps to the door. When he got to the door he turned and looked at her for a few seconds, and then walked inside. I don't know if my mom had a job at that time, but I have to assume she spent the majority of the first years of my brother's life at his side. Then one day she had to turn him over to school. When they looked at each other that morning they must have both known that this was the end of an era, that things were moving on.
The reason I remember her telling this story is because she went with him when he moved into a dorm in college some twelve years later. She sat in her car and watched him walk toward the building (I'm assuming the dormitory), and just before he went in he turned and looked at her just like he'd done on that first day of school. They waved at each other as the car pulled away. The end of another era. That brought all the memories flooding back to her, and I imagine the dam broke then.
And now my brother is in her shoes, watching his oldest working a job and going to college, while his youngest is inching towards graduation from high school next year. I guess one day if all goes as planned I'll be doing the same when my time comes. By my calculations I have eleven years before that day for Logan and sixteen years for Abby. The circle keeps turning. I believe there's a song on The Lion King that says something about this whole mess.
When you're a parent the majority of your life revolves around your kids. Most of the time it feels like you're running a losing race, trying to get too much done in too little time. You get home from eight hours of work to discover your kid has homework and they need your help. Homework, dinner, baths, and by then it's bedtime. Repeat the cycle tomorrow. And the next day. When you get a few days extra, like a Labor Day weekend, the race stops for a bit. You get a slow-down period. You can take a few breaths and actually spend time with your family without succumbing to the routine you know is waiting on idle just around the bend.
That's why I had the sinking feeling the morning after Labor Day, I think. I had an extra day of quality time with Abby. In those times I get to marvel at the person my daughter is becoming. I get to hear her talk with an ever expanding vocabulary that surprises me every day. I get to watch her explore and learn. I get to see her growing before my very eyes, and because of that time sort of slows down, if only for a few moments. It's only time enough for me to recognize that it's happening. Then it's back to work and school, back on the tracks we've constructed that carry us efficiently through our weekday lives. When Nikki and Abby left that morning they carried the slow-down period with them, and now its back to the races. Until the next one I'll only catch glimpses of how quickly she and Logan are growing, how smart they're becoming, how they're turning into little people. I'm already ready for the next slow down.
Moral of the Story: I guess it's obvious. Take note of the extra time with the kids. Cling to it, immerse yourself in it, squeeze it tight even though it'll slip through your fingers anyway. In the end you'll still be saying "It goes by too fast," but every bit of slow-down helps.
Look at me, being all philosophical.
