“Don’t blink,” they say, often at places like the grocery store or a coffee shop, their eyes lingering on my cart filled with children. “It goes by so fast.”
“Just wait,” others comment, noticing my weariness as a parent.
After nearly 13 years of raising children, I’ve grown accustomed to such remarks, almost becoming desensitized to the warnings about how quickly their little legs will grow and how soon I’ll find myself navigating the tumultuous waters of adolescence. Yes, I understand that these years are fleeting, even though they are composed of seemingly endless days. I often find myself gazing at old photographs of my once chubby-cheeked toddlers, marveling at how they’ve morphed into young adults who require adult-sized meals and shoes, and who, quite surprisingly, grasp the innuendos in television shows. I’ve shed tears at graduations and witnessed their smiles transform with the arrival of adult teeth. Watching them grow is an expected part of parenting; it signals progress and success in my role as a mother.
The Unseen Passage of My Own Life
However, what strikes me most profoundly is how rapidly I am aging.
No one in the checkout line has ever placed a hand on my arm and said, “It goes so fast,” with regard to my own life. I wish someone had, especially during my 20s when the future seemed like an unfillable canvas. Through work, marriage, and raising tiny humans, I’ve crafted a significant part of my narrative faster than I ever anticipated. Although there is still much left to write, the pages are filling up rapidly, and I can sense where the conclusion might lie.
As I reach the age of 40, I carry a prescription for a mammogram as proof. The films that shaped my youth are now celebrating their 30th anniversaries, and the music I grew up with has landed on the oldies stations. While I recognize that reaching this age is often heralded as a time of self-discovery and confidence, I also experience moments of disbelief. Driving through my suburban neighborhood in a minivan, kids safely buckled in the back, I sometimes catch my breath, realizing I am the quintessential middle-aged mom in this scenario. I know how I got here; I was present for every step. Yet, I still feel like a teenager masquerading as an adult, despite the responsibilities I shoulder, evident in the prescription in my purse and our mortgage. I expected to possess more wisdom at this stage.
“I’m not ready,” I find myself murmuring.
And truly, I’m not.
Embracing the Journey
I have no desire to relive those years, as awkward as they were. It’s not that I was happier then, nor am I dissatisfied with my current life. It’s just that time has flown by too swiftly. As I focused on my children growing into young adults, I neglected to pay attention to my own journey. I hardly found time for self-care, let alone to notice how quickly the years were accumulating.
I am aware that 40 is not considered old today. There is much ahead if fortune favors me, and I look forward to what lies beyond. I’ve already faced loss and feel immense gratitude for the gift of aging. This is what I have worked toward: to be here, in this moment of my life, in my parenting journey, in my career, and in my marriage.
However, I still find myself unprepared. Perhaps we never truly are.
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Conclusion
In summary, as I navigate the complexities of motherhood and my own aging process, I remain aware of the swift passage of time. Each year, although filled with remarkable experiences, seems to pass in the blink of an eye, leaving me reflecting on both my children’s growth and my own journey through life.