While driving in my car to take my daughter and her friends to gymnastics, my Spotify playlist fed me a country song entitled, “Next Thing You Know” by Jordan Davis. The song tells the story of a 20-something dating a girl, moving in together, getting married, having kids, and before he knows it, having grandkids. It’s about how life moves so fast, and the next thing you know, you’re in the next phase. The song hit me hard and immediately brought tears to my eyes.
In moments like these, my emotions catch me by surprise and come on stronger than I ever would expect. I didn’t know why it hit me so hard until today.
This morning, I dropped off my oldest to take his high school placement exam. In the fall, he will attend high school, the first time any of my kids will be gone the entire school day since I started homeschooling them 5 years ago. I’m terrified.
Now that I think about it, a lot of my deep thoughts come while I’m driving my minivan to places I don’t want to go, metaphorically speaking.
Instead of looking forward to the next adventure, I’m one of those people that tries desperately to cling to the past, one of the side effects of having my mother die suddenly when I was only eight years old. No matter how hard I tried, there was a past I couldn’t hold onto, couldn’t control.
Control. The illusion of it in our lives is what keeps me sane some days, as long as I don’t think about it too much.
The passage of time is something I simply cannot exert any influence or power over, as much as I would like to freeze time, or rewind, as I’d more often like to do. No matter how hard I try, I cannot unsay that stupid thing I just said, cannot go back one hour to fix that interaction with my child, go back one day to spend more time with my family.
Time can move so slowly at some points, so fast at others. Last night, I shampooed my daughter’s hair while she took a bath. I often chide her for taking baths still. She is already nine and loves just hanging out in the tub. More often than not, I’m urging her along – I want her to be done with her bedtime routine so I can go clean up the kitchen, send those last few emails, or go to bed myself (or, let’s be honest – watch Netflix in bed). I am jealous of the ease in which she lounges while in the water, with nowhere to go and nowhere she’d rather be.
To quote Andy Bernard from The Office, “I wish someone would tell you you’re in the good ol’ days before you’ve left them.”
What’s my rush, Chanie? These are the good ol’ days.
These days, I am feeling that sensation more often than not. That these good ol’ days are passing me by, that this school year is moving way too fast, with summer around the corner and high school looming large just after that. In five years time, I will have no one left to homeschool.
If I’m being honest, that part of this whole thing – my clear role these past few years and the lack of it going forward with no clear goal for this next stage of my life – scares me too. The last 15 years have been defined by just surviving, getting to this point. Now that I’m getting close to the finish line, I am constantly asking myself what’s next.
For now, I think the answer might have something to do with what my yoga teacher said last week. She remarked that pain and suffering comes from two things: ruminating on the past or worrying about the future, and if we really just be present, live in the moment, we can eliminate so much of it.
Like my 9-year old, I need to “lounge in the bath” of the present moment, really look at my kids when they’re talking to me. Pay attention to each word my 14-year old says. Look him in the eye. Drink him in.
Because these moments are all too short, and the next thing you know, they’re gone.