The Passage of Time.

If you're a parent, you've heard or read somewhere that "The days are long, but the years are short."  If you haven't, let me be the sage friend who passes that particular gem on to you.  Here: the days are long, but the years are short.

Sometimes, especially when I see how big and capable Rudy is these days, it's hard for me to dwell too long on how she's no longer a happy, clapping baby or a toddler just starting to communicate.  I think of something else quickly, consciously or not, because it hurts somehow that I can't go back and have just five more minutes with that kid.  And I had my chances to be a mom to that one-year-old and that two-year-old, and I hope I did well enough.  I just read a book called How Eskimos Keep Their Babies Warm, about parenting practices around the world, and reading about the infants and younger children, I kept thinking things like, "I didn't do that," "Should I have done that?" and then, "Is it too late to do that?"

I mean, Rudy is a kid, and her big sister is a smart and (lately) frustratingly dramatic kindergartener who'll be in elementary school next year.  Don't get me wrong: I am thrilled that I am no longer buying diapers.  I don't feel an urge to be pushing a baby stroller, and I like that we're now mostly unencumbered (without several bags packed with snacks and clothes changes and activities, just in case) when we go out as a family.  But.  Looking back on the diapers and the strollers and the bags reminds me that today, things like walks to the bus stop, especially walking while holding my daughters'  hands, and the piles of crayons and dress-up clothes are only going to be around for a short while, too.  And I do a decent job of paying attention to moments with my kids.  I take the time to write extensive paragraphs on stuffies and nighties and dance classes, for example.  But time and the way that it slips away has been making me quietly melancholy lately.

Over February vacation, I went to drop off some medication at my mom's assisted living facility.  When I got there, I noticed that she was in the common room with dozens of other residents, listening to a small military band's performance.  I went back downstairs after I took care of things in her room, and I thought about going in to sit with her, but knew I couldn't sit for more than five minutes because of a tutoring appointment I had to get to.  So I stood by the door and watched her for five minutes instead.  I noticed that she was the only one in the room without a head of pure white hair, and I thought about having Alzheimer's at the age of sixty.  I watched her clapping along; she seemed content, and sometimes when I visit with her she appears that way, but other times she's just vacant.  It's sad, and it's terrifying, and don't worry, I often discuss things like this with my therapist, so I'm not completely on the edge.

And then I made it to my tutoring appointment, where I worked with a high school junior who wants to get into MIT.  He probably will since he got a perfect 80 on his math PSATs.  I was there to help him prepare for the reading and writing portions of the SAT since those PSAT scores were merely in the low 70s.  Anyhow, as I was leaving, I noticed the worn, presumably ignored swingset in his backyard and thought about how this serious high school student used to be a kid excited to get on the kindergarten bus.  And clearly, I was in a mood, but that playground bummed me out.  Later, I visited with a friend whose son is in middle school.  What?  When I had Marley and she came to visit my new baby, he was only five.  It was just another awakening.  It made me think about how much happens and changes, and how much changes you in a few short years.

Over the rest of vacation, and through the majority of this month, I've been thinking about the ways in which I spend my time.  Most afternoons this winter, I've been sinking into the couch and losing two hours to my computer or new magazines or DVRed television.  I should be cleaning or running errands or exercising or starting projects.  I should be reading.  I should be catching up on sleep.  I should be playing more with my kids.  I should be slowing down and living in the moment, but I should also be seizing the day.  I should set high standards, and I should be easy on myself.

Really, it seems I have been luxuriating in too much time to think about how I spend my time.  Give me a few more long days that slip away into the start of spring, and I'll be more frazzled than philosophical, which might be a good thing. 

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