Where the hell did the time go? 
I sat with you as you ably discussed your college course with your tutor today. You were polite, and quietly confident. I couldn’t help remembering your first day at school. As I remembered that day all those years ago, you changed before me. Before my eyes your legs shrunk back to the those little podgy calves, the bristles on your chin replaced by a five year old’s freckles, your man’s hands back to the fingers that struggled to hold the wriggly pencil.
You were so excited to be going to school. The weekend before we’d celebrated your fifth birthday with Peter Pan cakes, and angels and pirates costumes. We’d had balloons and cheerio sausages, and wine – for the mums and the dads. I’m pretty sure all the Dads ate your sausages and your sausage rolls! You didn’t care. You ran with your friends and jumped on the trampoline in that long lawn bordered by English roses. We didn’t finish your fifth birthday until 2am in the morning. We partied into the wee hours in that beautiful old home in Mission Bay that overlooked Auckland harbour. I have pictures of youblowing out the candles on the cake I made with it’s green icing and dinosaurs in Never Never land.
It was an unusual cake.
On the way to school, that first morning, you’d held my hand firmly as I pushed the stroller with your sister, through the cool May morning. You walked slowly. You wanted to stop and look. At everything. You would pick leaves up and examine the dew drops, you’d mirror trace the silvery threads of cobwebs glistening in the morning sun, and kick stones to see how far and how straight they’d fly down the path.
You marched to your own drum. I quietly fretted you would be late on your very first day, but thankfully we arrived in good time. You put your bag on the hook and shyly started playing in the corner of the classroom. When the bell rang you didn’t want to sit on the mat. Or leave the lego. I negotiated a truce that involved hanging on to a few pieces of lego whilst sitting on the mat. And you went quietly. Your big brown eyes wide with expectation. My heart in my mouth.
Then you turned and said:
‘You sit there Mummy’ pointing to the chair at the side of the room.
‘No, I have to go now.’
I looked up sharply to see if you’d cry. But you didnt. You bit your lip, and turned to face the front. Sadly I picked up my handbag and without turning back left the classroom.
Today, I watched with pride as you took the next step in your journey. My tall good looking son. A young man now. The able scientist and mathematician. The only person I’ve known to get excited about a course chokka with physics! So proud when the tutor agreed that you were perfect for the Oxbridge preparation course. So proud, when you asked quietly and maturely how it worked, what you needed to know.
You even apologised for keeping him waiting!!
Are you sure you’re my son? My strange, brown eyed little dude? The one who cried when Winnie the Pooh fell out of the tree? The kid who hid under the table when the going got tough at school. The little guy who obsessed about Stegasaurus, Lego and Harry Potter.
Where have the years gone?
I felt a moment of panic. STOP THE CLOCK!
I didn’t realise it would go so fast, and now it’s too late to savour the moments when it was just us at home with playdoh and paint, with lego and trains, with Thomas and books..all those beautiful books.
But I can’t stop the clock, I can’t retract all those times I felt frustrated ‘stuck at home’ with you kids. All those times I uncharitably felt I had given up my career, my life, my time. All those times I resented the limitations that came with a life with small pre-school children.
I can’t stop the clock. I wish I could tell every new Mum and Dad, take time to enjoy these years. They probably won’t listen. Others before me have said it before. ‘Enjoy these years,’ they’ve said..but I closed my ears….
I wish I had listened, because now I know there was truth in what they said. Enjoy the time when your children are young, because before too long, they’ll be gone.
