Time can be a scary thing when you have little children.
Sometimes, when my 3 year old wakes up talking a mile a minute at 7am, and her stream of questions picks up speed before she even leaves her room, the 13 hours of single parenting left before bedtime seem endless.
Other times, I spend the whole morning getting everyone clean, changed out of pajamas, fed, and out the door for a 30 minute music class down the street. Then I return with just enough time to get everyone fed, cleaned (again because now they have had the chance to spill or spit up both breakfast and lunch on themselves), and changed back into pajamas for a nap. Gazing in amazement at the sink full of dishes and growing stack of laundry, I’m left wondering where the time could have possibly gone.
Sometimes, one solitary minute changes me at my core. Like the 60 seconds Mackenzie (3) spent climbing into my lap and, with her arms wrapped around my neck, recounting her latest adventure with Bert. Her words came out in a blur and she was off and running again before I could blink, but those noodle arms and sing-song voice swept away two hours of you-should-be-napping frustration and I resolved to be more patient with my sweet girl.
Other times, entire days will be swallowed up trying to accomplish a single simple goal. Like the week I recently spent trying to get out the door to the grocery store and failing every single day until we were left eating homemade bread and applesauce for dinner on back-to-back nights. Sure I wiped a lot of noses and read lots of stories in that time, but a whole slew of days passed and I just seemed to spin my wheels (metaphorically, of course, the car wheels were quite stationary).
Just when I manage to wrap my head around the passage of time and live “in the moment”, plodding or fleeting though it may be, Time goes and pulls something so totally heinous it knocks the air out of my lungs.
Don’t get me wrong, I love that my daughters are growing up.
I just wish it wouldn’t happen so fast.
Or slowly, depending on the day.