It Only Hits Once When It Does

It only hits you once it does.

One day, you're starting school for the first time. The next, you're learning to ride a bike. By the time you hit your pre-teens, if you're a young woman, you will more than likely be experiencing a significant change: Your first period. If you're a young man, you may be noticing physical changes like facial hair or a deeper voice. The next thing you know, you're graduating high school, maybe going to college. Dancing the nights away into the wee hours of the morning at NYC clubs, you're still reminiscing over. Four or so years later, you are looking for a job to launch you off your feet and into the real world. Years later, you marry and start a family if you choose to.

At 41, I am now watching my not-quite-two-and-a-half-year-old ride his balance bike, and I wonder where the hell the years have gone. The wild ride my life has been. The complete out-of-traditional-order road I traveled to get here. I am spending time with my son's little preschool friends' families, watching our kids laugh until their bellies hurt and play until they're exhausted, and I can't help but wonder if this is my new village. Will our kids be friends throughout the years? I like these families. Will WE be friends? This is when you pause and thank whomever and whatever you believe in for this moment, that you never want it to end. At least, for me, that has been the case for most of these summer days.

I am continuously trying to piece together where the time has gone. I feel like I am 25. I might act like I am 25, too. The only difference is wisdom (and maybe a few extra well-earned and much-appreciated pounds)—the wisdom to finally understand that each minute that passes, each laugh, each tear, each decision, each "Mama, look!" each sip of coffee that is just the perfect temperature, each walk or run that leaves me feeling invigorated, each weight lifting session that leaves me feeling stronger, each hug from my husband, or "Adios, muchaha" sealed with a kiss as he walks out the door each day to go to work, each pat on my dog's head as I pass her, or dancing with my cat for no reason, each sentence that I write. I am never getting any of these back.

With age comes wisdom if we allow our lives to teach us. Not only do our mistakes and regrets teach us but also our wins and those moments we wish we could do over because of their beauty. Only with age do we understand that this is our chance at a masterpiece, and each day, each minute, serves its purpose as the stroke of a brush.

Because it only hits you when it does.