I happened upon a few old pictures today. This one just slayed me:
Such sweetness and little wide-eyed faces. I miss those babies. I can't help it. And it's not because now they tell me so bluntly that I talk too much and my taste in music is bad. And it's not that their taste in music is bad or even the fact that they organize their limited weekly screen time around opportunities to watch The Simpsons. It's just that this time goes by too damn fast.
In small snippets I am reading Amanda Soule's new book about the Rhythm of Family. Luckily it's formatted that way -- and whether that's because she's a blog writer or because she knows that no matter how much we talk about slowing down and living deeply in every moment, we still only have the here and there kind of time to think about anything else -- I'll never know. But she's put the passing of time heavily on my mind this week.
Soule writes about the dreamy moments of baking with a child while a littler one zooms through the kitchen on his wooden trike and an older one threatens to run through the house before removing muddy soccer cleats. And those moments full of noisy love resonate with such meaning I begin to fear the day they end. Worse, I fear the other kind of noise in the house. The kind that is full of discord and unhappiness. Slammed doors. Eye-rolls. I fear that time squeezing out the other. In real time, but maybe in memory, too. What do we make of this time we have?
While orthodontists unsnaggle teeth and dermatologists prescribe potions to keep faces sweet, wonder shifts to who we are together-- bigger, older, and still together. Trying not to grieve the moments gone, but to be here with them now in all the days we have.
I sat on the floor today with Stella, painting with shades of gray.
While Sophie and Bob cooked dinner together.
It was that kind of dreamy. I felt all the beauty and the warmth and the slowness of the moment. And I asked Stella what the paint made her think of. Did she think of a story? A feeling? Stella, does it remind you of anything? And without the slightest hint of silliness while she kept on painting she said, emphatically,
She was right. Time marches on.