"The days go by slowly, but the years go by fast."
This came from a lovely woman who helped me negotiate my daughter's stroller up the gangway of the ferry from Martha's Vineyard to Cape Cod. We had visited my best friend and her family. Her children, at 12-, 10- and 7-years old, seemed impossibly grownup.
"The days go by slowly, but the years go by fast."
This simple observation on motherhood was probably the keenest one I ever heard. Well, this and "From now on, every trip to CVS will cost you $50."
Mothering a toddler encompasses countless milestones and moments of great joy. But, there are also long stretches of tedium. I mean how many times (really) do you want to read Goodnight Moon? Then one day you realize that you haven't in weeks. Or months. Or years.
Twelve of them to be exact.
It's all too tempting to mourn those long gone days, whether they went by slowly or not. I remember my own mother wistfully saying "I wish you were still little" when I was being a particularly petulant teenager. These days, with a petulant teen of my own, I spend a lot of time looking at photo albums (I'm a fairly meticulous — and analog — archivist, despite this digital world). I do miss that adorable little smile. Her party dresses. Her bangs. The way she jumped for joy or her signature move, "the elbow dance."
But, I don't want to go back because then I would miss my bigger little girl. The one who was undeniably happy when I pulled up to the Vermont equestrian center where she's been training all week. She has her annual "rider's tan" (deep dark forearms, face and neck, but white upper arms and hands from the polo shirts and gloves she wears). She was pretty much caked in barn ... um ... whatever.
I don't ask.
After a sweaty hug, she gave me a quick tour and came back to my hotel room for a "real" shower. In the car, she filled me in on all the drama, of which there was an abundance, trust me. She cleaned up happily, but declined my invitation to dinner or to stay over. She was eager to get back to her teammates and coaches.
When she makes time for me, I enjoy her company. Her intelligence, her insights. Some, like her feminism, I recognize as the fruits of seeds I planted long ago in the Goodnight Moon days. Others are uniquely her own.
I'm not at the top of her dance card anymore, but I shouldn't be. When she's at work during the day, I miss her and look forward to her homecoming. Maybe we'll watch one of the movies I've recorded for her. Maybe we'll have dinner together. But, I know that if she gets a better offer (Panera or Bertucci's with her friends, laser tag, a bonfire at the beach or a late night swim off the town dock), our evening will be quite happily time-shifted. There's a new sense of urgency gaining momentum. Although they still have to get through senior year together, they know there's a clock ticking.
I hear it too. Every minute of every day.
If only they'd go by a little slower.
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Being pregnant is like nothing else you will ever experience.
Sixteen years ago (omg), I was "great with child" through an extremely hot and uncomfortable summer. All the things you expect when you're expecting happened to me. Coworkers, with whom I was not exactly touch-feely, reached out and rubbed my belly. Uninvited. Diners at the next table audibly tsk-tsked over my apparent drinking problem. (Hello! It was ginger ale, people!) Older mothers sighed with envy and wistfully wished me well. Younger mothers regaled me with stories of 18-hour, pitocin-induced, episiotomy-required labor.
And, every, every, everyone had some snippet of wisdom to share. All of it well-meaning. Some of it valuable. Oddly enough, the one observation that my husband and I both remember as being the truest thing we heard was this ...
"From now on, every trip to CVS will cost you $50."
It did!
There were disposable diapers, baths and lotions and ointments, bottles, formula, pacifiers, bibs, thermometers, powders and creams. The nice young clerk would ring us up and — BINGO — $50.
As many other advisors promised, the baby time went by too fast. And with it, went our need for all of the above. Soon we were buying art supplies, chewable vitamins, and detangling spray. (Any of you with long-locked girls (or boys), take note. Suave makes a great product in a green bottle with a friendly octopus on it.)
CVS has also come in handy when a teacher springs something at the last minute. "Bring in poster boards tomorrow." Or, "You'll need 100 index cards by Tuesday." Before I trek over to Staples or Target (both an inconvenient drive away), I always check CVS.
Now, with a daughter who is about to turn sixteen (I repeat, the baby time went by too fast), we have new requests that take us to CVS. Suddenly, we are going through more shampoo and conditioner. Suddenly, there is a need for skin cleanser and scented body wash. Suddenly, we have to look into each and every product advertised in the gospel according to Seventeen.
At least it seems that way to me.
I was never a big drugstore girl myself. I've had short, short hair nearly my entire life (there was an ill-advised experiment growing it out when I was in my mid-thirties, but I've burned most of the photos). I wear very little make-up. And, I am notoriously cheap when it comes to health and beauty aids. I realize, of course, that my daughter isn't necessarily going to follow in my footsteps in this department. A lot of young women don't.
In my senior year of college, I went down to "Spring Break" in Florida with three other girls. En route, we stopped at a supersized drugstore somewhere South of the Mason-Dixon line. I don't know why my travel companions felt compelled to buy so much, but suffice it to say that there went two hours I'll never get back.
Like so many other aspects of mothering a teenage girl, when it comes to drugstore lovin', you either laugh or cry. On our most recent trip to CVS, I had to laugh. Shampoo and conditioner and astringent and cleanser and Cover Girl pressed powder and strawberry gum and ...
BINGO. $50.
