Time is sliding past me every day, actually. When I left for my week-long work conference trip last month, I told Charlie in a wobbly voice to not grow up too much while I was gone. Seven days later, he had learned to crawl, learned to wave "hi", and refined the technique of extricating himself from his exersaucer.
Going through pictures for holiday gifts this week, I came across ones like these:
A few files later, they turn into these:
It makes me feel like I'm in a waterslide. I love waterparks, but every time I go to one, I think that I might enjoy a super-tall, super-curvy waterslide. But my stomach begins to flip when I read the warning signs: "hold your hands across your chest and keep your elbows in. Thrill factor: 4, highest intensity". I get goosebumps on my clammy skin as the wind whooshes over me on the platform some 50-feet up. And when my body takes that first turn into the slide, I panic, desperate to slow down. I try to claw the sides of the slide, but my efforts are futile and I end up painfully knicking my elbows. Squeezing my eyes shut, I gasp for air and try to calm down, until I'm ejected at warp speed under billowing currents of water, as if the waterslide was mad at me and couldn't wait for me to get off.
I try to look at my kids closely every day, taking in every bit of change, as if looking harder could slow it down. A pot never boils if you keep staring at it, and so it should be with my boys: that their transformation can't happen if I hold them under my gaze long enough. But I do turn away for that one second, and when I turn back around, I've taken a sharp turn on the waterslide into a strong current that I can't stop and can't slow down. These moments are sliding away. I have a feeling that I will always be clawing at the sides; but at least I have something incredible to hang on to.
No comments:
Post a Comment