“You better not blink,” says a friendly stranger at Starbucks, eyeing my cart filled with kids. “It all goes by so quickly.”
“Just wait,” adds another, sensing my growing impatience.
After nearly 13 years of being a parent, I’ve grown accustomed to these comments, almost numb to the reminders about how swiftly my children’s tiny feet will grow into big shoes. I’ve witnessed the rapid journey from building Lego towers to navigating the complexities of pre-adolescence, and yes, I sometimes long for those days filled with dollhouses and training wheels. They’re right; the years are fleeting, even though each day feels interminable. I often find myself reminiscing about old photos of my chubby-cheeked toddlers, wondering how they transformed into young adults who require adult-sized meals and understand the nuances of TV jokes. I’ve shed tears over graduations and the arrival of those big, adult teeth that forever alter their smiles. Watching them grow is what I anticipated, and I am thrilled that my 12-year-old can now meet my gaze directly; it’s all part of the journey.
What truly surprises me, however, is how fast I’m aging, too.
No one at the checkout line in Target has ever touched my arm and solemnly remarked, “It goes so fast,” while referring to my own life, but I wish they had. Back in my 20s, my future seemed like an empty canvas, and somehow, between work, marriage, and the chaos of raising tiny humans, I’ve penned a significant chapter of my life in mere moments. There’s still so much left to write, but the edges of my story are filling up, and I can now see the potential ending approaching.
At 40, I carry a prescription for a mammogram in my purse as proof. The movies that shaped my youth are celebrating their 30th anniversaries, and my playlist has found its way to the oldies station. I understand I’m meant to embrace my fabulous 40s, to relish in self-acceptance and the freedom that comes with age. And while I genuinely appreciate all those truths—having survived the turbulence of adolescence, the uncertainty of my 20s, and the challenges of my 30s—there are moments, like when I’m driving my minivan through my suburban neighborhood with kids buckled in the back, that I catch my breath. How did I become the middle-aged mom in this scenario? I was there, yet I still feel like a teenager trying to navigate adulthood, despite the realities that come with it, like that mammogram prescription and a mortgage. I thought I would have it all figured out by now, but I often feel like the girl who wore braces and made mix tapes on a lavender boom box, wondering how I could possibly be this old.
“I’m not ready,” I whisper to myself. “I’m just not ready.”
I don’t want to relive those years. I was an awkward teen the first time around, and it’s not that I was happier back then or that I’m unhappy now. It’s just that everything is moving at lightning speed. While I’ve been focused on my children growing up, I haven’t given as much attention to my own journey. I didn’t take the time to notice how quickly those days added up to significant moments in my life.
Before you jump in, I know—40 isn’t ancient by today’s standards. There’s plenty more ahead if I’m fortunate, and I’m genuinely looking forward to it. I’m grateful for the opportunity to age, especially after experiencing loss. This is what I’ve strived for: to reach this point in my life, in my parenting, in my work, and in my marriage.
But, for the record, I’m still not ready. Maybe we’re never fully prepared.
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Summary:
The passage of time in parenting is a bittersweet journey, where days feel long but years fly by. As children grow, parents often find themselves reflecting on their own lives and the speed at which they age. This piece highlights the universal struggle of balancing the joy of watching kids grow with the reality of one’s own aging process, emphasizing that while there’s much to look forward to, the rapid passage of time can leave one feeling unprepared.