All the
trees outside my window have leaves today. Full leaves, not just buds. I sit at
this desk every day, but last time I remember looking out the window, the trees
had only the tiniest buds. I remember thinking that spring comes so late to
Wisconsin. I remember staring out the window, between paragraphs, wondering
when the leaves would arrive. And then today, I look out, and boom — leafy
trees. Green everywhere. Looking out the window, I am so happy to see the
greenness and the bright pink of the crabapple tree, but I wonder when it
happened. I know the buds didn’t become leaves overnight. Why didn’t I take
note as the buds grew? Did I go weeks without looking out the window or did I
look without seeing? Why do the leaves appearing seem sudden to me, instead of
gradual, as I know was the reality?
I
fear the same thing is happening to my children. Jamie goes on the potty
now. Her diaper pail has been empty for
how long? Two weeks? Three? I honestly don’t know. One day she said she wanted
to go on the potty, and each day after that, she stayed dry longer and longer.
I bought her some underwear, knowing full well that she could be back in
diapers the next day, but she wasn’t. She potty trained herself — my first
child to do this. I had nothing to do with it, and because of that, I can’t say
when it happened exactly. She is likely our youngest child, and I will probably
never buy a pack of diapers again, until I buy them for our grandchildren. Yet,
at the time I bought my last pack of diapers, I had no idea it would be my
last. It wasn’t even the biggest size.
Liam
is reading Harry Potter books. Wasn’t he just reading those easy chapter books
last month? Or was it the month before? Where did Harry Potter come from? I
guess, if I really thought about it, I would admit that I saw some Beverly
Clearys in between the easy chapter books and the 300-page Harry Potter. But it
still feels sudden. My little Liam, curled up on the couch with such a big
book.
Jacob
is in contacts. He’s never worn glasses, but we took him to the eye doctor and
it turned out he needed corrected vision. Apparently, age 11 is old enough for
contacts. So now, as the kids get ready in the morning, I walk past the
bathroom to see Jacob, index finger to his eye, putting in his contacts. Wasn’t
I just brushing his teeth for him last week? It wasn’t last week, I remind
myself. It was when he was three. But sometimes that feels like last week. And
now he wears contacts.
Growth
is such a strange thing to witness as a parent. I eagerly await a stage of
childhood to end so that my child is bigger and more capable, but then when it
does finally end, I look back wistfully at what used to be. I look at picture
albums from two years past and am amazed at how young my children look.
I
am still learning how to appreciate the moment — to really live in the moment
as a parent and experience who my children are right now. It’s the only way I
know of to slow down time.
Once, when
I was about 11, we had a snow day. The snow was so deep and drifted so high
that no cars could pass in front of our house. I pulled on my jacket and snow
pants, and went out in the early morning, before anyone had a chance to disturb
the snow. I lay in a drift in the front of our house and looked up at the sky.
I had never heard it so silent outside before. As I lay there, I thought to
myself, “I will never forget this. I will never forget how the sky looks and
how quiet it is.” I was completely present to the cold air, the gray sky, and
the soft snow. I experienced a peace that I had not known before. And I never
forgot that moment. That memory of lying outside in the snow is as clear to me
today as it was the day after it happened. But it is so difficult to make a
conscious decision to remember something— as much as we love our children, it
is so hard to be completely present to them and nothing else. Yet without
regularly taking time to give them our complete presence, we risk being
startled with their growth. We risk having years of their life that are, at
best, a hazy memory.
The reason,
after all, that I didn’t see the buds change to leaves outside of my office
window is that I wasn’t attentive to the buds. I had other things to do —
articles to write, e-mails to send, and bills to pay. These were necessary
things, and I don’t regret missing watching the buds change in order to do
them. I know, too, that there are necessary things to get done as my children
grow, and it would not be good for them — or for me — to be focused on my children
every second of the day. But amid all the necessary things to get done, there
are also some things that can be put aside. There are snowdrift opportunities
being offered to me each week. Moments that I could remember for a lifetime, if
only I’d choose to be present to them, and nothing else. And I pray I may put
aside the unnecessary so as to be present to my children. So as not to spend my
life wondering how the buds became leaves.
