I really should say “time slips away,” because that’s how it feels like when you have a child. There’s no soaring to the sky; there’s just the constant passage of time from one stage to the next. From newborn and helpless, to holding his own bottle, to eating his first apple, to demanding mac and cheese. From flailing arms and legs, to crawling, scooting, walking, running. From crying to babbling to talking, to singing, to having an opinion about everything.
It all happens in a matter of minutes, it seems.
I was never this acutely aware of time. And I am not sure I like it. Because if Sam is getting older, then surely I am getting older as well. I might not outgrow my shoes every six months like he does, but time passes over me just the same.
I thought about this today while I ordered him a new spring jacket and sneakers. Because my two-year-old wears three-year-old-size clothes and shoes. And then an e-mail came from daycare that he is going to start visiting the “big” toddler room this week. And then it’s on to preschool. Then kindergarten. What’s next? University???
SLOW. DOWN. I want to tell Sam to slow down. But I know that won’t do any good. Because that’s his job — to grow, to run, to leave the nest. I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Now when I cradle him in my arms like I would a “real” baby, he says “wah, wah, wah” and rubs his eyes as if he were a crying baby and we both laugh. “I’m a boy,” he tells me.
And then just to clear things up: “Mama, you girl?”