When Time Starts Running

There is some sort of cosmic button that is pushed in your soul the second you have a child.

I’ve talked to other moms who feel the same way. It’s like someone flips over the egg timer inside you, and every minute that used to slip by so unnoticed is so, well, there.

In the beginning, you feel that time at every turn. Days become longer. Nights are interminable. Maybe, like me, you don’t leave your house for weeks, or even months, on end, because all of a sudden the world seems so big when you have to take care of someone so small.

Then, one day, like me, as you’re watching your kids kick a soccer ball around the field, and they’re so, well kid-like, you realize it.

Everything They told you is true: It goes so fast. It’s so hard. It’s so amazing. It’s so beautiful. They’re so beautiful. You hurt. You worry more. You cry more. You appreciate Christmas and Easter more, because Magic is real again. Birthdays—anyone’s birthdays—mean more, because you’re aware of Time in a way you never have been before. It becomes your best friend and your worst enemy, because, DAMN, it is sweeping your kids right along with it, no matter if you’re ready for them to grow up or not.

I don’t know if other moms have the same dichotomous experience of motherhood that I do. I wonder if other moms so strongly celebrate and yet mourn the passage of every day, since—while you gained beautiful memories—you also have one fewer day with your Baby.

Maybe I’m weird for feeling it all SO much, all the time. But it’s just how I’m wired. And try as I may to be the nonchalant mom, I won’t be. I will squeeze every small moment out of each day so hard that my heart hurts, then smile about it.

And then I’ll go back to cheering on the kids on from the sideline, keeping a very close eye on the clock.

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