The fact that time continually passes WITHOUT my permission frustrates the crap out of me.

I've been having spasms of nostalgia lately - remembering and longing for the days of my kids' early childhoods. The other day (which could have been three months ago, I'm not sure - I do know it was a day other than today), I was talking to my 17-year-old son and I reached out and touched his face, like I do. And it had hair.

Actual HAIR.

Like it should, because he's a young man. And I knew it was there, and yes, I know it's called stubble. But this is my baby BOY we're talking about here. For years, he was my youngest; he was my happy, funny little guy. I was suddenly caught in a loop remembering his husky little voice and who couldn't pronounce his r's. Which, for a kid named "Harrison," was downright adorable.

Swamped with memories of his babyhood, I began to stagnate. Where had the time gone? In my selfishness and desire for the return of my own, less-fettered life, I'd consistently appreciated but always looked forward to the next milestone. And I'd lose track sometimes - what with the shopping and the cleaning after pets and the taxiing kids from place to place and the events that take place in a massive household - and eventually I'd surface just long enough to see how much time had passed while I was busy making other plans. And while I'd noticed those first few whiskers, and then how they'd turned into little patches, I somehow had missed how (due perhaps, to their blonde nature) they'd come to TAKE OVER HIS FACE. Ish.

Why, Time? Why you gotta pass like that?

It just does.

Moving forward... Yesterday, when I picked my daughter up from school, I showed her a video I'd taken when she was about 6 years old. I was amazed that my laptop synched it to my iPhone, and it was a really sweet video of her being a sweet little kid. My daughter - like every other child on the planet - is not immune to the infectious power of self admiration, and I thought it would be a fun thing to show her on our way home. So there we are; I'm driving along, she's watching the video; and after giggling a bit, her side of the car goes quiet. I look over and I'm stunned to see she's tearful. "Baby, what's wrong?" I ask, worried.

My 9-year-old sniffed, "I'm getting so old."

...crickets...

The truth is, Sydney often has expressed a reluctance to grow up. When she was 3, she learned that her grandmother had once been a child, too. Putting two and two together, she rapidly came to the conclusion that she would someday be an adult. This became her undoing, as my toddler began to get overly weepy and introspective. "I don't want to be old lady," she would plead, looking at me for answers. My response wasn't much help, because of course I WANTED her to grow up to be an old lady, as old as she can possibly get.

Here we were again, years later, ruminating on the passage of time. Most recently, her concerns have bubbled up over the fact that next month she'll be turning 10.

TEN.

My youngest child is entering the double digits, and before I could even process this as a thing that makes me SO MUCH OLDER, my daughter processed it for me and instead of my ruminating, I've been quelling her concerns.

Ten is a great year. Being double-digits is cool. You're just as awesome as you were when you were 4.

And it's true - all of it is true. Time is just an arbitrary marker as we pass into greater things. We age, sure; and all those wonderful things about now drift into a distant then. But we also gain amazing, valuable experiences which we clump into one-giant package we call life. Then, now and everything in between? It's all good.

But secretly? Secretly? Gawd, how I miss their sweet baby faces - even as I know that someday I am going to miss their sweet faces just as they are right now.

Curse you, Time.

Traci Arbios is a mom, stepmom, adoptive mom and working mom. She lives with and writes about her blended family of seven kids, two pets and one amazingly patient husband at www.thefullmoxie.com. Find her on Facebook at Facebook.com/traciawesome; contact her at traci@thefullmoxie.com; or zap her on twitter, @traciAWESOME.

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� 2013, Traci Arbios.

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