Time is a Thief

Last night, my girl in her pink flannel pajamas jumped and jumped and jumped on our big bed.  Her blonde hair rising and falling, her smile wide, she called, "Daddy jump with me!  Daddy, hold my hands!"  And he did and they repeated it over and over till her sleek bangs stuck to her forehead with sweat.  I watched her face and there were years in that moment.  Years of our girls bouncing, holding onto Daddy.  Years of bright smiles, innocent fun.  And years when they will leave us and these moments etched in our hearts and minds will be what we have left of the time our children were small.

Do you ever hear the wistfulness in the voice of an older parent who has grown up children?  The cliche reminder that you will miss this?  I know I will.  I know it each time my daughter accomplishes something new, each time a clothing size is packed away.  That time is over, never to return.  But I had it and that can't be taken away.

Parenting is bitter and sweet like that.  You give and give, and your children with no conscious effort give back to you, just by being children.  And all the while, in the middle of your cherishing, you know that this time is finite, that your children are not yours to keep.  They are yours to grow and tend, but not yours to keep.  The work of parenting is life's blessing to you, but it is only part of the plan, part of your journey.

Knowing this, I am greedy for time with my family.  I have rough calculations in my head of the week's free time with my first daughter.  I cherish this second pregnancy for what pregnancy is, a path I will travel limited amount of times.  I savor the kicks, the journal entries, the slow outward growth of my belly.  While my daughter plays, I exchange knowing looks with my husband, "We're so blessed.  Can you believe her?  Why are we so lucky?  I'm so glad I'm sharing this with you."  I pause in my frustration with my trying two year old, knowing that this will pass, harder trials will come.  Someday I'll miss this.