It’s the beginning of a new year and I cannot believe how the time has vanished.
It seems that time has blindsided me once again, dragging me kicking and screaming into yet another yearly accelerated time period.
Unfortunately, time has become my greatest nemesis, a virtual, brazen thief that steals and squanders precious moments that endlessly tick tock away, never to return.
I feel time is robbing me of treasured life moments. Its menacing and eminent shadow stands at my front door, perpetually knocking, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, its monumental grip tightening as each hour, each minute, passes.
I wish I could stop the sinister threat of Father Time and convince him to stream much slower at a pace with which I’m comfortable. If I could, I’d even seek to impossibly stretch time backwards to my favorite past moments when my six children were fuzzy-headed newborns.
I have longed for years to savor those late-night rocking chair snuggle sessions once more, even if just for a moment. If I could, I’d even press the rewind button back to when each child first learned to smile, first recognized this mother’s face, and first learned to walk and talk. I would relish and celebrate these precious “first” moments again and again, keeping elusive time at bay under strict lock and key with constant scrutiny and monitoring.
I feel that time is threatening me somehow, taunting me with yearly birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and the like. These life milestones are essential and vital, but bittersweet to me as a mother because they represent my children’s growth and maturation, an eventual step closer to the harsh reality that my six cherished little ones will someday leave my home to spread their own wings and fly off into the sunset without me.
I don’t feel old, but somehow stealthy time has blatantly placed (without my permission) a few unfortunate grey hairs that now grace my head. Moreover, grocery store clerks that used to call me “Miss” now refer to me as “Ma’am” and folks at church don’t call me by my first name anymore.
But I refuse to grow old.
It seems that sinister Father Time believes he has lulled me into a blind security, leading me gently down the path towards graceful old age and elegant frailty, but little does he know with whom he’s dealing.
I’m a scrappy fighter who will use every tactic possible—including hair dye—to slow down time, forcing it to slacken its maniacal grip upon my family. I must keep time from bullying us further, so I can relish in the precious family moments remaining with my ever-growing children.
Somehow, though, I am conflicted.
I know that one of my main roles as a mother is to nurture and teach my youngsters to grow to be kind, courageous, and compassionate adults. Yet, as I daily witness Father Time stealing my limited supply of moments with them, I can’t help but yearn to capture this threatening bandit and bind him, forcing compliance and submission to my own time demands.
But I can’t. I won’t. I must deal with the swift passage of time like every other mother.
Father Time is here to stay. He can either remain my enemy or I can change my perspective and tolerate him as a time giver instead of a time taker.
Our battle of wits isn’t over just yet. I will continually keep a constant vigil for time protection, refusing to surrender silently because every moment counts, each is a precious present, especially for that old timer.