Time is fascinating to me. A single day can feel like an eternity, but the youth of my children is vanishing in the blink of an eye. How can this be?
I can only imagine how my dad feels… Yesterday I celebrated my thirtieth birthday. He was here for my party this weekend, and kept shaking his head in disbelief saying, “I can’t believe my baby is thirty.” I thought I was supposed to be the one who struggled with this birthday. Go figure.
On the eve of my big birthday, Parker was reluctant to go to bed. It was lonely in his room, he said. His bed was uncomfortable, he said. He sat on turned down sheets, looking to me for rescue.
“Will you sing to me? Will you sing Rock-a-Bye Baby?”
So I stood by his bedside and cradled his lanky seven-year-old body like a baby in my arms, and sang. He made silly faces, breaking my song in spurts of laughter. I tucked him in again, but soon after I returned to the living room, there he was at the end of the hallway. Room still lonely, bed still uncomfortable. So I invited him to rock in the chair.
It didn’t take long for my mind to wander back to the days when I rocked him every night. When he and I were the only ones stirring in our dark and sleepy home, with moonlight filtering through the blinds. And back further to the days when I rocked Jackson. And one sweet memory after another, I recalled the time I shared with my children when they were really small.
I rocked my baby with tears streaming down my cheeks, just like they are right now. You see, thirty is nothing, but seven and ten seem really old to me these days.
