I get sad sometimes.
I miss my oldest child. Memories flood my mind of her wild curly locks, her diaper swishing in hurried toddler steps. She once fit in the crux of my arm, and now she’s a woman nearly as tall as I am. She’s a powerhouse, and I’m a proud poppa even as I swelter in the wish of wanting her nearby.
I chat with my middle child on the way to school, her life a swirl of priorities I barely remember having. I marvel at her smile and her determination, but mostly I admire her courage in just being who she is. She makes no excuses, offers no apologies, and stands tall as a master of herself.
My youngest spends most of this morning trying to make us laugh. He knows success when his sister smiles. She is stingy with such things, and she makes us work for her reaction. He doesn’t care for her approval, but he does have a need to make the world a happier place. He’s been that way since the day he was born.
Time has been my best friend and my worst enemy.
This sadness is not a typical sadness. It’s a joyful sadness. I am so grateful and happy for what time has given. I’ve held three wonderful children in my arms, watched them grow from seeds to saplings, and marveled as they’ve bloomed in every season. I don’t hold onto their youth as much as I wish it was longer, that I had more time to marvel, to appreciate and to soak it all in. I want more time.
But the sunrise is fleeting and the dawn but a passing moment. I still have the day to enjoy in the appreciation of both.
So my children walk away and I smile, feeling both joy and sadness at the same time. I let them go even as I hold them close and watch them bloom even as I wish they’d stay saplings for just a little while longer. This is the love of a parent.