The Real Deal on the Cycle of Time
I know my parents love me.
I see it frequently and deeply, in what they say to me and about me, in the many things they do for me and my family. Their love is unconditional. Truly.
But just recently, I had a realization about another facet of their love. It was a beautiful moment, a humbling one, but it had a bittersweet quality as well because it reminded me of how the clock ticks on, no matter how badly you want it to pause or go back.
It started simply enough - with me and little koala playing on the bed as we do most days. We looked at books and toys, cuddled, and practiced rolling, reaching, and sitting. In these quiet moments, I am often overwhelmed with love for my kids, and go in for as many kisses and snuggles as they will tolerate. I reflected both on how little he is and how much he has learned in the last few weeks. And as I cradled the fine curve of his skull in my hand and listened to him babble away, I didn't see me. I saw my mom. When I touch the faces of my children, I don't see my hands - I see hers as they appear in my childhood memories. Sitting next to my preschooler daughter, I absentmindedly rub her back - and then realize that my mom used to do that to me during similar moments.
My realization wasn't that I am becoming my mom; I knew that would happen long before I had kids.
My realization was that 30 and 40 years ago, my parents were a young married couple, and my brother and I were the babies. My parents sat with two little babies on a bed, playing and cuddling with them, feeling that same simple yet overwhelming love for the tiny people they had created. Before we became friends as adults, our parents carried us, fed us, and tried to sneak in kisses and snuggles the exact same way. So rookie mamas like me, please know: we love our children and try to do our best for them because decades ago, someone loved us and tried to do their best for us.
Time is relentless. We don't know what's around the corner or how many corners we have left to see. But mortality doesn't need to feel like doom. Not if you choose to see it differently.
Making memories can be as meaningful as looking back on them.
I see it frequently and deeply, in what they say to me and about me, in the many things they do for me and my family. Their love is unconditional. Truly.
But just recently, I had a realization about another facet of their love. It was a beautiful moment, a humbling one, but it had a bittersweet quality as well because it reminded me of how the clock ticks on, no matter how badly you want it to pause or go back.
It started simply enough - with me and little koala playing on the bed as we do most days. We looked at books and toys, cuddled, and practiced rolling, reaching, and sitting. In these quiet moments, I am often overwhelmed with love for my kids, and go in for as many kisses and snuggles as they will tolerate. I reflected both on how little he is and how much he has learned in the last few weeks. And as I cradled the fine curve of his skull in my hand and listened to him babble away, I didn't see me. I saw my mom. When I touch the faces of my children, I don't see my hands - I see hers as they appear in my childhood memories. Sitting next to my preschooler daughter, I absentmindedly rub her back - and then realize that my mom used to do that to me during similar moments.
My realization wasn't that I am becoming my mom; I knew that would happen long before I had kids.
My realization was that 30 and 40 years ago, my parents were a young married couple, and my brother and I were the babies. My parents sat with two little babies on a bed, playing and cuddling with them, feeling that same simple yet overwhelming love for the tiny people they had created. Before we became friends as adults, our parents carried us, fed us, and tried to sneak in kisses and snuggles the exact same way. So rookie mamas like me, please know: we love our children and try to do our best for them because decades ago, someone loved us and tried to do their best for us.
Making memories can be as meaningful as looking back on them.
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