“I think I am getting boring,” I tell a friend.
“No!” she exclaims. “I don’t think so.”
Once I hit my teens, there was no differentiating one summer from the next. I can distinctly recall a few specific summers with significant goings on - concerts, crushes, vehicles, friendships, transitions, living quarters, jobs. If I put my mind to it, I could come up with something marking each summer.
Upon becoming a mother, I began to mark time differently. Time became based around my child’s milestones and mine own as a mother. My rate of change slowed, as my son’s took off. I was stabilizing to take on the destabilizing changes of mothering. Even before becoming a mother, life changed. I was stabilizing in preparation to become a mother, not purposeful way because I didn’t want to become a mother until shortly before I chose to be one.
Prior to the slow down, I had moved about once every year or year and a half. My employment changed at that rate or even faster. Then, I found myself in one place for about seven years. I had the same job for about five. In the midst, I became a mother.
Suddenly, time has done this funny thing. An alarming thing. It is going fast. Very fast. Not just because I have a child who is developing and changing and growing everyday, but because time is ripping by.
I still have that sense I’ve had since my son was born, “Slow down, hurry up, I can’t keep up with you.” He’s way out in the ocean paddling, or way up the trail pedaling fast. I am lagging behind. This summer is the last of its kind. It was no more or less eventful than any other. I just have a different feeling about it.
Holy h/ll, I am getting older, is what I am trying to say. Time is going fast.