We are in the car yesterday, driving around, looking for dinner. Babygirl is in the passenger seat, looking through the dismal choice of CDs I presently have in the car. She settles on a mix CD featuring female artists (I call it the "Chick Mix") so she can listen to a Tori Amos song.
As "Silent All These Years" begins, and she and I start to sing along, it strikes me that we don't have many more of these days left. Babygirl is nine, rapidly approaching 10. The time she will want to spend with Mom: trips to the mall, movies, even going to grab dinner, will be fewer and farther between, and sooner than I'd like them to be. She's just gotten tall enough to sit in the front seat of the car, how much longer will it be before I'll be driving in it alone? She insists it will never happen in the same way we insisted we'd keep in touch with friends in high school who we never saw again. The idea doesn't leave me so much with a feeling of sadness, as of one of foreshadowed nostalgia.
The problem is, if you're too busy lamenting what will be, you miss what still is.
When the song finishes, she asks if we can listen to it again. I put my right hand down on the armrest. She puts her left hand on top of it (she would be holding my hand, were it not for the blue cast on her broken hand).
And we restart the song.
As "Silent All These Years" begins, and she and I start to sing along, it strikes me that we don't have many more of these days left. Babygirl is nine, rapidly approaching 10. The time she will want to spend with Mom: trips to the mall, movies, even going to grab dinner, will be fewer and farther between, and sooner than I'd like them to be. She's just gotten tall enough to sit in the front seat of the car, how much longer will it be before I'll be driving in it alone? She insists it will never happen in the same way we insisted we'd keep in touch with friends in high school who we never saw again. The idea doesn't leave me so much with a feeling of sadness, as of one of foreshadowed nostalgia.
The problem is, if you're too busy lamenting what will be, you miss what still is.
When the song finishes, she asks if we can listen to it again. I put my right hand down on the armrest. She puts her left hand on top of it (she would be holding my hand, were it not for the blue cast on her broken hand).
And we restart the song.
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The thing with my son is, that he always has a logical answer. I stand there and think "I'm sure I should repremand him, I'm the parent afterall." I've just learnt to pick my fights carefully because to be honest, I don't want to crush the strength he is displaying.
Thankyou so much for your recent support, it meant heaps to me and certainly helped my recovery happen speedily.
Take care.