Last Friday the 1st grade performed their annual movement and music assembly, which this year was called the Arctic Blast. It seems like moments ago that I sat in the audience watching Grace in her 1st grade assembly (Musicians of the Sun), the morning after I threw a surprise birthday dinner for Matt. We sat in the same gym, our heads telling the story of the night before’s raucous toasts, and while I remember feeling sentimental I was surely not as crushingly overwhelmed with time’s passage was this time.
Probably it’s because Whit is my last baby. Perhaps part of it is that with each year, each week, each day, I seem to grow more porous, my awareness of life’s beauty and heartbreak. Maybe it was just the afternoon. I don’t know, but I sat there on the metal folding chair with tears rolling down my cheeks. It’s as though the passage of time was in the room with us.
The air was so thick with both wonder and loss that I almost couldn’t breathe. I marveled at my son. My son, who just two seconds ago was one of those tiny almost-babies in the pre-K class who sat restlessly on mats on the floor. My son, who just two days ago was born, his blond hair, his blue eyes, and his boy-ness all shocking me in equal measure.
I am a broken record, these days, I know. But I cannot stop my astonishment at how swiftly it’s flying, at how vivid the colors of this life are as they blur past my eyes.
You know what else, though? I don’t want to.
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