They Told Me Not To Blink

On the 18th birthday of our oldest child.

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They told me not to blink.  

"Blink, and you'll miss it", they said.

Pushing through the night in an expectant room, you made your debut as the morning sun shone in.  Every move you made, every little sound made us jump.  Were you too warm? Not warm enough? Too swaddled? Not swaddled enough?

They told me not to blink.

ABC's and 123's - they didn't come easily.  Finger paints and long walks and playground visits twice a day.  Before long you had a brother to chase at the park.

They told me not to blink.

Your first day of school, so bravely climbing the stairs that were half your height.  Your brother, screaming to go with you.  And me, checking my voicemail from a payphone while running errands, worried your teacher had called because you needed me.

They told me not to blink.

Running around the neighbourhood with other kids, the moms sitting in their yards with their babies.  "They're in my backyard now" one would holler to another, only to watch the miniature mob trample past the next minute, heading to the next lawn.

They told me not to blink.

Expeditions out back, exploring with books and blankets and snacks in tow.  Snakes and rockets and sand like snow.  I was busier.  Busy with your new sister, with work, with chores.  You were no longer an extension of me.  You became your own person.

They told me not to blink.

Text books and multiplication tables and novels and minnows and tadpoles and rubber boots and grass stains.  Hand-me-downs that never made it out of our house in one piece.  Bikes and smashing pumpkins and fossils and pyrite.

They told me not to blink.

On your Nitona, paddling to solitude.  Your mother would have stopped you, but your father encouraged you on.  You grew that day.

They told me not to blink.

Packed lunches and chocolate chip cookies and family walks and dinner table talks.  Sci-fi marathons and impromptu adventures and snowy trips to the beach.

Semesters and classes and exams and video games and flying.  Flying!  Politics and philosophy and world history.  Who taught you this stuff?

They told me not to blink.

Road trips and rushing waterfalls and finding trilobites and losing track of time.  Red sand and clam bubbles and jellyfish and the taste of salt in your mouth.

They told me not to blink.

And flowing gowns and tasseled hats and college and cars.  A toaster and a fridge of your own.  Where did the time go?

They told me not to blink.

But I did.