The days go by slow, but the years fly by.
I’m still a young mother of two preschoolers. Except that I’m not. I’m still planning summer outings and packing peanut butter sandwiches for our vacation days at the pool. Except that I’m not. I no longer mediate disagreements between siblings or serve as a cab company at all hours and all distances. Those endless days of monotony and routine, the school pickups and the weeknight suppers, the hubbub of activity amid the cluttered kitchen and strewn-out science projects, the aggravation and stress of work deadlines and school parties and final exams actually does have an expiration date. I just somehow missed the notice. Maybe it was under the label somewhere that I never peeled back. I always knew it would get here; in fact, I’m pretty sure I banked on it. But just not today. Not this year and not this summer and certainly not today.
The slow motion of those early days that I enjoyed, occasionally tolerated, but always hoped would speed up somewhat, took me at my word. I thought Jenn would never reach the one-year-old mark and be out of that walker and on her own two feet. Well, she did. And then she turned 21. And she’s on her own two feet now.
The ordinariness of family life that I knew would change course in due time—in fact, the progression that I would have sworn was the reason I was putting in all of the effort— got here a lot quicker than I thought it would. Not only did our children evolve into educated responsible adults who thankfully still check in pretty often, but my parents and cousins and brother also outpaced me in the years. I see pictures of former classmates and coworkers and I barely recognize them. They look nothing like their younger selves, and I’m puzzled because I know I sure haven’t aged in that way.
In fact, one of the most fulfilling awards of my life was the “Changed the Least” designation at my 20-year class reunion. Obviously, my stash of awards is a bit slim. With the advantage of a few more years of hindsight, however, I’m not sure that I should have been so pleased with that backhanded compliment. At high school graduation, I know I hoped to change in a lot of ways from the sweet shy girl with the bad haircut. It’s probably best not to lose the sweetness, so I hope I’ve maintained that, but the haircut had to go and even now, I work on the shyness. I had actually hoped to change a bit more in 20 years. I certainly hope I’ve picked up the pace since that reunion, but in all the right ways.
Regardless, change occurs. But just as I was too busy or myopic to notice the change in height, the change in interests, the change in friends, the change in dreams, even the change in wardrobe of our daughters from one day to the next, the seasons of life blurred by anyway, without my permission or even much notice. Fall pumpkin parties gave way to Christmas Eve excitement, followed closely by Easter dresses and backyard pool parties and new school backpacks with plenty of #2 pencils and lined paper. And then, steadily increasing in speed like fiendishly out of control flash frames in a slide projector, rolled first cars and exit exams and college admissions and—how did that happen?—college graduation and graduate school and first jobs and apartments. One, two…twelve…twenty-five.
But the days. Those days were incredibly slow and uneventful. I can account for the days but what elude me are the years.
Meanwhile, one career for me evolved into another, with new projects and employment at my alma mater. The space in our everyday lives vacated by the children is now filled with days that are routine in other ways, like refreshing and reinvigorating the homestead. All the things a husband loves to be involved in. He accuses me of being bossy, but I assure him it’s just that he’s the last one standing and a mom has to care for someone, as old habits die hard. It’s not bossing, it’s caring.
The one thing I will not do is clear out the bedrooms. I’ll continue to dust around the trophies and the kindergarten queen crown and the video game boxes. The full set of Thoroughbred fiction, selected by a pre-teen in love with the world of horses, remains on the hand-painted bookshelf, flanked by framed photos of the horses she went on to own and compete with. The space is theirs to do with what they want anytime they’re back in the house. It’s not a shrine or a time warp. It just means they are always welcome.
We may be in a lull right now, with more exits than entrances, but it’s OK, because that’s likely to change. In fact, the lack of routine and predictability is sort of nice, and in a very unexpected way, liberating. We’re free to accept more dinner invitations and to begin or renew friendships that took much less priority when family life was more demanding. I’ve even considered taking piano lessons and learning conversational Italian for the dream vacation to Italy. At the very least, we’re taking on some joint projects that require the same partnership that we began so long ago, and we still make a pretty good team.
It’s the circle of life, but I must admit that I was a bit more excited on the Simba end, with a world of possibilities, maybe even adoration from the masses, ahead. In a much wiser state, a bit further along that continuum, I know that every beginning has an end, but that it’s usually followed with another beginning. And so the circle goes. Which is why our door is always open and most often revolving.
Still, as my husband and I settled in for a round of Hallmark Christmas movies in July, we smiled as we realized that at that very moment our youngest was participating in a professional seminar, building her resume and plotting her future, probably too busy networking to notice the beach outside. We’ve done that already. We don’t just gaze out at the beach from the plate glass conference room window, although for years, that was our plight. We throw off our shoes now and sink our toes in the sand. And when the sun sinks over the beach, we’re there..
So now, with less predictability, some days are far too short but valued beyond measure. On a recent visit home, Alli and I went to a concert in Nashville. We drove the luxury car I bought for myself that I was always too responsible to get when I had a family in tow. Having bought tickets at the last minute, we were relegated to the nosebleed section, but were also lucky enough to draw the attention of a concert staffer handing out passes to the pit beside the stage. So we spent the entirety of the concert closer even than the first row, almost in the lap of Michael Buble’s orchestra and soaking up the entire experience. I can even tell you what color his socks were. They were light blue and they matched his suit. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to being a groupie but it was purely by default. A few of our co-pit people, though, had obviously passed the groupie quiz earlier and were in rare form.
We laughed, we reconnected, we certainly made a concert memory, and we even stopped in Franklin for a midnight McDonald’s cheeseburger and fries. I can tell you, that was a day that went far too quickly. It didn’t crawl and I’m sorry for that. In my Mufasa wisdom, I’ve learned that the most unexpected, the most unpredictable days, the most valued days, are those that fly by. And sadly, those are the ones that you wish would never end.
Some days just don’t last long enough. They practically whiz by. But not nearly as fast as those years.
