Writing this feels less like it’s meant for who I am today, and more like a message for the future version of myself. Maybe I’ll never come back and read this, or maybe one day you, Leo, could be reading this. But for now this is simply a message that attempts to speak to a future version of myself I hope I can be proud of.
There’s a saying that keeps echoing in my head: the days are long, but the years are short. It’s a saying that I feel all of us understand intuitively, but only truly understand as we grow older and we wonder to ourselves, “What happened to the time we thought we had so much of?”
Parenting in the age of social media has been an odd thing. I’ve been able to see the perspective of other parents at different points in their own journey of raising their kids. And a common theme that has been true not only for almost every single parent, but for myself as well. It is that with each milestone, watching our children crawl, walk, run, their first birthday, we’re not just celebrating them in that moment. We don’t just see that little boy or little girl as they are today. We see every moment with them from the day they were born to the present day. It’s as if no matter how big they are, some part of them will always still be that little baby you quietly comforted at 3am in a dark room.
Again, to point back to social media, it has shown me the perspective of parents who are sending their kids off to college, packing their bags, and watching them go off to be their own individual person. Someone else had said in a video, “I’m not just saying goodbye to you, but to this girl as well” as it depicted moments from her childhood like Christmas morning, or a family vacation. There was a sense of innocence in those videos, as if you could feel the pure joy radiating from a dad who wishes he could relive just one of those days, one more time.
But here’s the thing: that day hasn’t come yet for me. My greatest gift is that I still have time. I still get to choose how I want to remember these years. When my son still reaches up for me to hold him for the 27th time, still needing me in ways only I can provide, I can still reach back out to him. I can choose to be patient when impatience is easier, to be comforting when frustration arises, to be present even when I’m exhausted by all the other responsibilities in my life.
Every day I remind myself: when my son cries because he’s too tired to fall asleep, or spills his food on the floor for the third time, he won’t remember those moments. But I will. These days are for me. These days are an opportunity for me to remember with gratitude and not anger. For me to embrace the long nights, the sticky messes, and the constant exhaustion as something beautiful and fleeting, rather than just another tough day.
I’ve realized that life is giving me an opportunity to focus on what still is. To look down at those small arms that reach up full of pure trust and innocence to keep him safe. To protect him, to comfort him, and ultimately, to just be present.
So I’ll hold him a little longer as I tell myself, these moments are for me, so what am I going to make of them? And if I do end up reading this years from now, I ask myself this: Am I proud of who I was all these years? Have you felt that no matter how long any individual day felt, the years were far too short?
New Age Lessons 