On Time Passing

Dear Elena,

During December, and only for a few seconds in the morning, the burning orange light invades every inch of our kitchen. On most occasions, you’re up with me, eating breakfast or helping me prepare it. Today, though, I stood there surrounded by insisting realizations. Stubborn thoughts from the “Time Passing” radio station in my head. All while you slept past the 7:00 AM mark on the clock.

The orange light won’t last long. It never does. And soon enough, time will shift, and I won’t get to welcome it while standing in the kitchen.

I watch you sleep and think of ages. That time measure that adorns every new achievement or the excuse we add to inconveniences, like tantrums, meltdowns, and an immediate need for a hug. Your new “thing” is to ask me if I’m happy after I’ve said “Don’t.” You notice the change in my expression, and it makes you uneasy. You hold my face close to yours, bring your nose up to mine, and, staring deeply into my eyes, you say, “You happy, Mama?” Sometimes, you even try to push my lips into a smile, just to make sure I go back to normal.

I reassure you.

Time is slipping through my fingers. You are changing, growing, learning, testing, becoming your own person. I see traits emerge and try to envision what they’ll become in years to come—your empathy, determination, and young kindness. Yes, you are often wrapped up in layers of toddlerhood, but there are traits I think are rooted deeper than a phase. Time is slipping, and I’m busy trying to hold a tighter grip.

There are a lot of “last times” that also flood in with the morning’s orange mood. I think about the last time I held you to sleep or the last time I fed you a bottle while looking at each other; so many more to come that I’ll only notice after a period of absence. The “Time Passing” radio station is filled with melancholy and a sudden urge to document even more of us.

The last time you signed “more”.

The last time you asked for help to climb into the carseat.

The last time you called me “Mamama.”

Last time moments are sneaky, you see. Their presence will also float around you once they are gone, as a way to haunt you and let you know that you missed it. You were probably too busy holding a tighter grip. Holding. Wishing. Longing instead of doing.

Last times aren’t meant to be caught; they are meant to be savored. They are a reminder of everything we miss when we pretend we can hold on to the present. The present is meant to be lived, not held.

I should be in more family photos, write you more letters, and capture stories you will want to hear in the future. Many stories from my grandparents are now gone with them, and the ones I got from my mom are such a priceless gift. I want you to have those and many others with you when you’re 40. I should take you on more adventures instead of wishing I did. Stop being so busy by holding a tighter grip.

Time passing can feel like this orange invasion in the kitchen: here, and then gone without warning. But while it’s here, it lights us up. Reminds us what can still be. There’s so much that can still be. I hope you’re not too busy trying to hold on to the present when you’re 40. I hope you’re living it.

Love,
Mama