“The days are long, but the years are short.”
I hate that phrase, but I use it all the time.
Just this morning I woke up to our alarm, rolled over, looked at the clock and thought, “How in the world is it only Thursday?” I find myself wishing the days to go faster, to start later and end earlier.
The days start when it’s dark. I eat the same eggs and toast. I choose from the same few maternity outfits. I take the same drive to work. I follow the same schedule. I can expect the same challenges each day.
The days are ruts. Familiar and comfortable, yet confining and draining.
As I crawl into bed, I curse the early morning alarm that will be sounding in just a few short hours.
Dark morning to dark night.
Every day a list a mile long.
Every day a thousand needs to fill for a thousand different people.
Every day little to no energy.
Every day a thousand things left undone.
Last night I told Cortney that I find myself wishing for the end of the pregnancy because it means the end of this stressful “first” school year in my building, the end of this increasingly uncomfortable pregnancy, and the end of pregnancy for me forever. But then I feel immediate guilt for such thoughts. I feel those little kicks in there that only I can feel yet. I think about how as soon as Alice is here, she starts that quick stage of infancy…the minute she snuggles in my arms, time starts to take that baby away.
Sunday we were at my nephew’s first birthday party. Charlie came monstering up to me and I actually flinched at how BIG he looked to me. I flashed back to how I cried and cried at how big Eddie looked when I brought Charlie home from the hospital almost 3 years ago, and realized that if Charlie looks big to me now? In four months he is going to seem like a dang adult.
I’ve only been a mom for five and a half years!
But holy cow…I’ve been a mom for a whole five and a half years! That is longer than I was in college!
How did those years slip by so quickly when I feel like each minute of each day is plodding along at the speed of grass growing?
Somehow I have a 5-year old who tells me that he was “upset” or that something is “inappropriate” as he writes full sentences and reads me books.
Somehow I have a 2.5-year old who “reads” his favorite books because he knows them by heart, tells me he loves me, dances like a fool, and talks in full sentences.
Yet here I sit looking at the clock, wishing it was Friday afternoon rather than Thursday, and willing the next week to fly by so Thanksgiving Break can get here.
How can time fly and drag at the same time?