When I was a child, the long hot, summer months seemed to stretch out to infinity.
Sometimes, on days so sultry you could see steam rising from the pavement, I’d wish I were back in school with my teacher marking days off on a big chart. In March, the calendar had a lamb and a lion on each side. In April, there was an umbrella and a duck. Seven red “X’s” finally made a week go by.
Now, vacation time seems to pass before I can even get all my kids’ hot weather clothes out of the boxes and into their drawers.
Someone once told me the difference between children and adults is that kids have a more creative sense of time.
“When did you get your ears pierced, Abby?” I asked my neighbor’s four-year-old daughter as she proudly touched the tiny stars that glittered in her earlobes.
“Just about eighteen years ago when I turned two, the little girl replied without blinking once.
“Wake me up in three minutes,” my preschooler Matthew yawns as he snuggles into bed.
“You’re not planning on sleeping very long?” I ask, pulling the covers up beneath his chin.
“Only ‘til morning...” that little boy trails off.
Teenagers aren’t much different. Back in 1971 when I was a 22-year-old first-year teacher, an eighth grader asked me how old I was when World War I began. Seriously!
“What are you going to be when you grow up, Mommy?” three-year-old Christie wants to know.
“Older.”
“Older, like a grandma?”
“I hope so.”
“Then whose little girl will I be?” she worries.
“No one else’s. You’ll be my big girl, all grown up.”
“Oh,” she pauses, her eyes beginning to fill as she continues, “I’m not sure I want to grow up.”
“Now, why would you say that, Little One?”
“Oh,” she paraphrases Mr. Rogers, “I guess I like us just the way we are!”
Would that I had a child’s command of time. Some moments I would stop the ticking clock.
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| Some moments I would stop the ticking clock! |
