getting in the boat

Today I watched my oldest daughter dance and sing, and saw my younger one flap her arms along with her, sqwauking away.

And I felt it.
I viscerally felt time slipping away.

The other day we were at my parent's house and Blythe found a Popple*. My mom and dad had given it to my older sister when she gave up her pacifier. And all of a sudden here I am, with an almost three year old who sleeps at night without her very own"paci." How does time trick us?

In one moment it can absolutely stand still.  Like this scenario: I am trying to get lunch ready, Becks is crying because I can't spoon feed her while heating up chicken nuggets for Blythe, who just informed she has to go potty. I know Brent will be home at noon, and it is 11:50. But I'm pretty sure it has been 11:50 for half a century. 

I was updating Becks' baby book the other day, flipping through to locate all the blank pages I hadn't filled yet: but there were so few blank pages left.

The other day Blythe said, "I'm not too big. I'm just a little big." But she is so big. Half a second ago she was just a squirt, signing more and please, and if she's not that baby than surely she is the little girl squealing for Elmo. But she's not. She's almost three.

And as I watched her spin and sing and give so many facial expressions, it was one of those moments that I wanted to grab tightly. I felt so nostalgic for that very moment I was living, as if it had already passed.

I'm not one to wish the days away, but I'm also not one to always cherish them like I should. I'm ready to be done nursing. I'm ready for Becks to eat on her own. I'm ready for Blythe to be able to wipe her own "bum bum". But in my readiness for what's next, I don't often feel the day I'm in.

Today Blythe grabbed an old frame for a mirror that was broken and waiting to be taken out to the trash. She laid it on the ground and got "in it" and said it was her boat. She informed me she was floating to M-ville [our town]. I wanted to get the last load of laundry done while Becks was napping, but instead of informing her that M-ville wasn't a port city and crushing her adventurous heart, I hopped in. And we pushed off and set sail.

So often I choose the laundry. And that is why that moment today hit me in the gut: these days are almost gone, and before I know it I will be letting Blythe's child borrow the bike we gave her when she gave up her paci.

 My days are hard sometimes. This mothering thing is brutal. But it's also great and fleeting. It's good to have moments that remind me I need to get in the boat more often.

if you weren't a child of the 80s, this is a popple.

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Melinda Moss said...

Stay in the boat. Everything else is going to happen anyway and there is not a thing you can do about it. You won't regret the boat trips.

Hannah said...

Oh the popple. How did I ever forget about those?

And yes to the boat trips. These days are too fleeting, though they seem forever long at times they still manage to slip through our fingertips like sand. I try to remind myself of that fact daily. Because the day will come all too soon when there will be no more boat rides and there will only be piles of laundry and a sink full of dirty dishes and no cries or stick fingers, hugs or sloppy wet kisses to go along with it.