Time

Photos from school are pushed to my phone. And suddenly I can't breathe thinking about how quickly they grow. Triggered by a candid– the heaviness of their childhood and my motherhood– is brought to consciousness as I attempt shallow inhales.

It was only a couple hours ago that an older mom stopped me in the store, commenting how her now 30 something-year-old was not long ago only two months old like my youngest is. I spent the next few minutes listening to her--she wanted to share about her son, her love, his life. It was as if she needed to process aloud her disbelief in time. And then, like others, she left me with an encouraging cliché, of hoping I stay present and enjoy these years. 

I do. 

I try like hell, at least. 

I'm painfully, acutely, gut-wrenchingly, excruciatingly aware of how precious this life season is.

So much so, I'm grieving the moment I'm in. 

I can barely breathe because of it--childhood's fleeting nature, the seeing it from their eyes, compounded with the notion that I only get one shot at motherhood. Together they mount to a moment of existential clarity around this very brief, intense life. 

I recapture my wandering thoughts, lassoing them because I can only sit in the depth for so long. I would get lost otherwise. 

So, I put the feelings and thoughts away as best I can, knowing they will be back again–they always come back. 

I take my first deep breath as I transition. 

Coming back into reality, the planning and to-do lists pop into mind, but I leave space to think about how I can be intentional with my kids, as doing something–or rather having control over something–is the only coping skill I’ve got to help what’s so largely not in my control…time. I tell myself that if I’m present enough, doing enough, and love them enough then they’ll be okay. Therefore, I’ll be okay. And then maybe, at life’s end, I’ll reflect more on my security and relief than regret. Yet I know my efforts are in part distractions. Yes motherhood is about imperfectly showing up and loving well…but motherhood is also about accepting time.