As I watched the kids playing with sharpened sticks and kicking up the multitude of leaves, I had one of those gripping thoughts: Another year has come and gone. Here are my babies, one with shaggy hair and a penchant for Harry Potter; the other a pipsqueak powerhouse, her singsong voice telling tales of mermaids and castles as she colors and draws.
I. asked me today: "Will I be sixteen when you're forty?"
Yes, baby. You will.
Tucking S. in on Friday night, I sang as I picked up toys--"Turn around, and you're two, turn around, and you're four... turn around, and you're a young girl, walking out of my door." That song gets me every time. I remember my own mother singing it, and the forlorn tone of it both captivated and puzzled me. Isn't the point of life to get older, grow wiser, move on? And yet, my mothering heart understands: how quickly pass the years.