Stopping Time

Coming back over the river via the footbridge this morning the (now 75 lb) puppy and I paused our run to watch as the Canada geese practiced for their long flight south.

It’s one of the many inevitable signs that summer is drawing to a close and that autumn is on its way. The trees are still green but now interspersed with red and black berries. The nights are shorter, the mornings now slightly cool.

We’ve spent the last seven weeks trying to squeeze every last ounce of fun out of the warm weather.

The bigger boys were in summer day camp. They visited spray parks and city playgrounds; they took buses — an adventure in and of itself — for field trips to local attractions like the zoo and the space and science centre. At home, they ran through the sprinklers, and explored the limits of Lego construction.

The baby seems to have become a little boy overnight. He is now five months old and pushing nineteen pounds. He can reach for toys and hold his head up enough to play in the bouncer and jungle gym. His brothers think he is both the loudest and cutest thing ever. They will sing songs to him and show him their toys, and his little face lights up in drooling delight. The five year-old will occasionally remind his three year-old brother, “careful, he is not a toy”, the same phrase we instilled in him just a few years ago.

In the autumn, the five year-old will start kindergarten. It’s a change I haven’t quite got my head around – that my first baby is suddenly a schoolboy. I’m excited for him, and he’s thrilled about learning his letters and learning to read.

But I am also acutely aware of the sense of time passing, of the years slipping by unnoticed in the blur of activity we call life. I know that one day in the not-too-distant future, I will wake up and the house will be empty, the children long since grown. So every now and then, I like to stop and stare into the sky and to try, despite the fleeting nature of time, to simply drink in the moment.

 

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