Precious Time

The butterfly counts not months but moments and has time enough. Rabindranath Tagore

I was asked by someone very special if I could remember when my kids were little. My answer had a lot to do with why I still insist on family vacations even though my children live on their own. I answered that I remember moments. I remember the feeling of first holding my daughter in my arms and trying to wrap my head around the word mom. She studied me wide-eyed as if she was saying, so you’re the one I’ve been listening to all these months.  I remember when my son would give me kisses by planting his toothless open mouth on my cheek or the feeling of pure contentment when he laid his head on my shoulder and fell asleep.

I remember my daughter talking gibberish in sentences with inflection as if she expected me to understand exactly what she was saying. I remember my son closing his eyes and drifting off while still chewing on a strand of spaghetti. I don’t remember the day they took their first steps, but I do remember the excitement of their first day in Kindergarten.

If I focus on memories from the past I feel happiness speckled with sadness. Happiness because of love and sadness because it’s over. I’ll never get those moments back. And that’s why it’s so important for me to create new ones. That look of amazement on my daughter’s face when she saw the milkshakes at Black Tap in NYC  last week was the same look when she was four and saw Tigger at Disney. When my son steps off an airplane and sees somewhere he’s never been he’s immediately ready to explore just like when he was nine and decided he was meant to live in Italy and drive a Ducati. I have come to understand that parenting goes on as long as I’m lucky enough to spend time with my children. The joy of getting older means I’m learning how very precious time is.