The older you get, the faster time flies.
That age old message was preached to me time and time again as I was growing up. And, just as any polite young southern girl would do, I always smiled and nodded to whichever family friend happened to be so generously bestowing said life lesson on me.
Of course, my much less proper though infinitely more sincere reaction was reserved for my parents: a big fat eye roll.
It wasn’t until I hit my mid-twenties that I realized that the adults in my life had, in fact, not been out to annoy me, but rather were simply informing me of a somewhat absurd and frightening phenomenon. Though we may all technically have 24 hours in a day and 365 days in a year, time seems to pass more quickly with every passing year.
In my experience, the validity of this concept didn’t become fully evident until I became a mother. There’s something about having child that makes the concept of passing time even more tangible than the ever-increasing number of candles on a birthday cake.
My first born will soon be seven years old and yet it seems like just yesterday that she was a newborn and I was a sleep deprived new mom living in Paris.
Now, she’s a fully bilingual 6.5 year old with the most sensitive heart and empathetic soul. She loves to learn and thirsts for knowledge about everything under the sun and can put her mom to shame in a plethora of disciplines from the Rubik’s cube to the monkey bars.