I am passionate about savoring the remaining years of my children’s childhood. My oldest turns 13 next month, and I perceive with aching clarity the adage, “They grow up so fast.”
I watched two silly preschool girls on the bus today and conjured an image of Anne at age three sitting next to them. She was wearing her favorite green-and-blue striped dress, the one she insisted upon wearing two or three days a week. In my mind’s eye, her wide, brown eyes were full of delight as the bus pulled away from the curb and its articulated body bent in two like a living thing. Before I realized it, I had tears rolling down my cheeks as the preschool girls giggled, their red-shoed feet dangling high above the bus floor.
I tried to remember things Anne used to say and do when she was three. When I got home, I looked at pictures of her as in infant, a toddler and a school girl. All those moments feel like yesterday, last week, last summer.
I’m making her a memory book for her birthday. When she leaves home, she can take it with her. If someone asks what she was like when she was young, she can open the pages and tell their stories.
Where does the time go? How do our children change so much without our stopping to take stock each day? Suddenly her shoes are a size 8. Did I notice when they were 3, 4 and 5?