Three years ago today, I lost my mother, and ever since, I’ve reflected on the passage of time as I mark this anniversary. While it often seems like daily life rushes by unnoticed, mothers have a unique ability to perceive the changes that come with time.
Moms recognize the subtle shifts when they see their eighth graders sporting hairy legs—those moments that momentarily steal our breath away even though we’ve witnessed them countless times before. We notice time’s passage when our high schoolers start growing sideburns and facial hair, leaving us to wonder how we missed it. One day it’s just there. When did that happen? We often find ourselves so focused on their changing voices that we overlook these physical transformations.
As summer days shorten, we moms feel the swift passage of time when our college students start gathering their belongings once again. Has it really been that long? It feels like just yesterday we were watching them race around, mirroring our own youthful days, and now, poof—they’re off again.
We also gain a keen awareness of time when our oldest children, on the cusp of adulthood, begin to carve their own paths, sometimes ignoring our well-intentioned advice. Watching them make mistakes and learn from them can make time feel like it’s standing still—insert nervous laughter from parents with young adults.
It’s easy to see why mothers develop a heightened sensitivity to the flow of time. This past weekend, a group of friends and I took a ferry to a beautiful destination and spent a glorious summer day soaking up the sun (and yes, perhaps indulging in a few bars too). Yet, amidst the joy, I couldn’t shake a pang of sadness—because exactly three years ago, we shared a similar outing. That day stands out vividly in my memory as it was the last moment of carefree fun before my mother’s battle with cancer took a dark turn.
During those weekends, I would call her to share stories about the kids, my latest shopping finds, or the silly antics of my friends. She would turn down the volume on her favorite show and listen intently, her joy evident in her voice. I can still recall that last phone call after our ferry trip; for the first time, she struggled to keep up with our conversation. I hung up, tears streaming down my face, realizing she was slipping away from me. Our cherished chats would never be the same again. Just a few days later, I was back in New York, by her side until the end of her heart-wrenching journey.
Now, 156 weeks have flown by, yet my awareness of time still catches me off guard. Today, my family dynamic is significantly different from what it was three years ago. With teenagers and young adults now in the mix, my home feels much lonelier, although I wouldn’t say it’s sad. Quite the opposite—it’s bustling, filled with laughter (often hilariously chaotic) and the usual noise of a busy household. However, as Dorothy Gale once wisely said, “People come and go so quickly around here.” In a household of mostly independent individuals, it’s easy to feel the absence. With work, college, and social commitments, family dinners have become a rarity, and there are often not six of us under one roof at the same time.
Everyone is so busy that it’s common for them to be away. Sometimes, I feel a twinge of loneliness as I reflect on the fleeting nature of time. This awareness makes me treasure car rides, conversations, and even those calendar days with few events marked. It also makes me feel a bit sneaky when I fry bacon just to wake up my teenage boys on weekends.
Most importantly, it reminds me that small moments matter immensely. And I vow to cherish every phone call from my loved ones. If they reach out from afar, I will turn down the volume of whatever show I’m watching and listen intently. Just like my mom always did.
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Summary
Three years after losing my mother, I’ve grown acutely aware of how time passes, especially as I observe the changes in my children. My family dynamics have shifted significantly, leading to both joy and moments of solitude. As I reflect on these past years, I cherish small moments and vow to stay connected with loved ones just as my mother did with me.
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