One doesn't ever really acknowledge the warp speed of passing time until he or she becomes a parent.
It's the truth.
For whatever reason, with each child I pop out, the quicker the months elapse. And my increasing age compounds it too. It's like theeee most fucked up life equation ever. I've worked it out to
1 day + 1 kid (x2) + I'm almost 30 = actually 5 days because how is it Monday wasn't it just Monday two days ago.
How do I slow it down? Going on a diet usually helps. That'll drag out your week. Or, I've discovered, when I try to abstain from drinking- that's a really good way to make two nights feel like a year. But for the most part, the months are zipping by like they've been shot from a cannon, leaving only a settling cloud of vague, mashed-together recollections of taco Tuesdays and Kindergarten homework and soccer practices. Where did the time go? The school year is almost over, you say? No way. No WAY.
In fact, I was sitting outside with my sister-in-law yesterday. She inquired about a relatively large pot with a rather pathetic green sprout of a seemingly wimpy plant peeking above the soil. I was explaining to her that Troy planted a seed from a lemon I had used months ago while making dinner and we were expecting a fruitful lemon harvest in about 734 years by the looks of it.
But that's not what I said to her. That's what I meant, but not what spilled out of my mouth. What I actually said out loud was, "yeah by the time we get a lemon out of that sad, sad little plant I'll be THIRTY."
Then I stopped.
Took a sip of my margarita.
Took another sip of my margarita.
Took another sip of my margarita for good measure, and realized:
I'm going to be thirty in four weeks. Four WEEKS. My brain, apparently, didn't hop the Delorean and travel to the future like the rest of my body and life and family clearly has and was utterly convinced that by the time I am at the ripe old age of thirty, this struggling, woefully puny excuse for a seedling will have had ample time to die (I mean, we all saw it coming), turn into soil, be ingested by a worm to only then be gulped up by a bird that has enough time to be captured by aliens, withstand a millennia of years of travel through space to their host planet where everything is turned into lemons upon their arrival home. Because, let's be honest, that's the only way that plant is going to produce anything remotely lemon-like. And that's how far away I really, honestly, feel, to embarking upon my third decade of life.
Sad but true.
But I mean it when I say that it feels like it was just a moment ago that my little Landon was a baby.
And what a baby he was. The easiest. The smiliest. The quietest. He spent the first three years of his life propped up in a corner of a room with a wholly content shit-eating grin slapped on his face, only breaking squishy character when he would occasionally grunt and extend a chubby finger pointed in the direction of the fridge when he fancied some milk. Other than that, can't really remember him crying. He slept like a bear in hibernation.
And I was certain he would never speak.
But as luck would have it, he began to dabble in words. He would try one out occasionally. He would say "car," then he would say, "blue car," ...and I just didn't see the signs. If I knew then what I know now, I would have taken precaution. Things got out of control and he became a full blown noise addict. At four and a half years old, he won't shut up. On long car rides, he talks and talks and talks until he runs out of things to say, then he just starts making random sounds as a filler. It makes me feel like a fly has trekked into my ear canal and just lives there and is now buzzing happily ever after.
We were in the car to Avery's dentist appointment today, I had music on to try to drown out the ever-jabbering little boy in the seat behind me when I decided to knowingly put all of our lives in danger by simultaneously driving and writing down the absolute nut-show that is my son. In one breath, the following:
"Mommy! Are ghost-es made out of clouds and cotton? Because you KNOW they can go RIGHT through your tummy. And skeletons are made out of ONLY white but everyone already knows that. Maybe when we get home you can draw me a skeleton with a line through it. Or whatevah. This song says the word, 'too' in it but I really think it says, 'toot.' I want it to say that. Mommy mommy mommy mommy... are there more homeless persons than every other persons in the world? How come I never see a pile of dirt in the road then we crash into it and then a bomb hits our car? Wait MOMMY. Can girls be teenagers?"
I feel like somehow Landon's brain has been swapped with Woodstock in '69. I just picture, his cute little face and tousled boy hair, but beneath the skull, where one would presume would be a normal-looking preschooler brain is actually a massive field filled with a sea of leather-fringed hippies dancing around and doing LSD. I mean, that's my theory anyway. I'll keep my eye on him.
But I'm sitting here falling asleep because, surprise!, this day has gone by in a flash. It feels like just yesterday I updated my blog but it seems that is not the case. Either way and more importantly, I'm off carbs again. I tore my hamstring trying to be supercool in yoga and now have to counter my inability to work out with anorexia. Because... summer. Ugh.
So quickly bikini season came. So quickly. And I gotta be honest, I'm pulling for that miserable little citrus sprout, because vodka has no carbs and neither does a squeeze of lemon :)