Fast Forward....

Somebody slow this bus down. Please.
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Certain things in life make themselves apparent very quickly. One minute they are not there and the next minute they appear. Other things take time. They mark their presence in the background like a shadow at the corner of your eye. You turn to look and it's gone, but after many months of looking you've hardly even noticed that what was not there before is all that you now see.
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It was sometime around when the boys turned 17 months that I finally started getting an idea of what this whole business of "children grow up quickly" is about. It started slowly though. I can remember marking their milestones in measured steps and at a pace that seemed under control. Now though, I barely even have time to get my head around whatever new thing they're doing because I'm still trying to figure the previous one out.

Walking. Talking. A whole mouthful of teeth. Climbing. Last week they just started running. I mean, their development is at a speed that sends me reeling and leaves me in its shambolic wake trying to feebly keep up with it.

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Because, you know, this stuff is important not only to remember, but also feel like you're actively engaged in. I've wanted to write about each new crazy thing they do, but I simply can't keep up with it. Not to mention that both boys have discovered some new-found energy that would give The Big Bang theory a run for its money. I'm not kidding, these kids are inspired. Their relentless to-ing and fro-ing is impressive, but also downright exhausting. It's as if they just can't get enough of life and need to capture all of it RIGHT NOW.

I suppose this is why all parents speak of their chidren's early years with a certain amount of wistfulness. It seems to happen like a flash. A brilliant, overpowering, wonderful flash. You want to hold on. To say to whoever is in charge"Hey there, let's just slow this thing down a bit OK?", but your desire to cling and to savor falls on deaf ears. It is not to be.

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We are merely given the time to do the best we can within the confines of relative chaos. It leaves me pretty tired, but full of memories. Memories not in a grand scope, but of the little things. The little moments.

Little moments like when your child crawls into your lap as you read a book to them, or the still-sweetness of their breath, or how they wrap their arms around your neck while you carry them, or how they laugh at the dog as he rolls around.
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I sometimes notice that there are millions of these little moments, and yet, they are not enough. I want to hold onto them all, but I am learning that this just doesn't happen. As a parent I am given the privilege as witness and participant, but at the end of it all, I am raising my children essentially to become their own people, and people are individuals. Essentially, I am raising them to eventually leave me.

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I just wish it didn't happen so rapidly.