This week, my oldest offspring selected classes for their
first year of high school. Even as I type that sentence, I can hardly wrap my
mind around it: two of my children will be high schoolers in a few short
months, and my baby a middle schooler. No matter that two of them are now
taller than I am, and the third is gaining on me quickly, I can still picture all
three as newborns, toddlers, little kids.
|The girls, when they were little.|
of my children’s younger years. I have loved each of my children – and gotten to know them – through the progression of their childhoods. Despite the trials of the “terrible twos” and the “sassy sixes” and the excessive eye rolling that happens in my house these days, I’ve enjoyed most parts of every phase of their growing up.
When I look at photos from years past, or when we’re sitting
around swapping “Remember When” stories, it is easy to feel nostalgic, though I
don’t have any desire to go back in time. Contemplating the tiny,
chubby-cheeked, big-eyed kids in those photos, however, makes me realize –
again and again – how quickly these years pass by.
It really wasn’t all that long ago that I had three kids
under the age of 3. Then three preschoolers, then three in elementary school.
Back when they were all in diapers – and pretty much dependent on me for
everything – someone told me, “The days are long, but the years are short.” Whoever
first uttered that adage obviously had raised children.
These days, I sometimes feel a sense of woeful panic at how
few years of childhood my children have left. Four more years. That’s what
remains until my older two move on to whatever comes after high school. A mere
four years ago, they were in the midst of their elementary school years, and four
years from now, they’ll be legal adults. It doesn’t seem possible – to me or to
One of my children has said to me several times lately, “It
seems like time is passing by so quickly.” And it’s no wonder. These middle
school years are the bridge between being a little kid and becoming an
almost-grownup. My teenagers are newly and acutely aware that childhood has an expiration
date, even if the exact deadline is obscure.
I have a clear memory of an 11-year-old me sitting with a
friend on a summer afternoon, days before we entered middle school, and saying
to her that it felt like time was flying by, that soon we’d be in high school,
then college, then who-knows-where. In that moment, that looming change seemed
overwhelming. I could see adulthood on the horizon, even as it was still years
She laughed, and a few minutes later, we were off again, riding our bikes through the hazy summer day, as carefree as the children we still were. That’s the mercurial nature of this time in my children’s lives – one moment thoughtfully considering some serious responsibility, the next playing a silly made-up game with friends or siblings.
I can also clearly remember the anxiety of dropping my kids off at preschool for the first time, then at kindergarten in the “big school” a couple of years later. Even back then, I thought, “How are they so big already?!?” Sometimes, still, it feels as if just last week they were so small I could snuggle all three together in my lap. I can’t imagine how I’ll feel when they step out into the great big world all on their own.
And so I keep reminding myself – in the moments when I’m facing eye-rolling, contrary, children in the process of growing up – that these days, too, may sometimes seem long, but the years are as short as ever. I bask in the happy times we spend together and in our shared adventures. I try to offer advice and comfort in those moments when these children of mine feel stressed or sad or worried. I strive – not always successfully – to keep my temper when they push buttons and boundaries. And when one of them needs a hug, I lean in and hold on, for as long as they want, until they let go.
Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay
appears as Meghan's April 8, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton