I forgot. Well not completely. Every half year or so I may have almost remembered but the truth is, it seemed pointless.
It’s been over four years now since I’ve written about the foibles and feats of my progeny.
Four years is forever.
The stumbling-over-his-words two year old is a sports-obsessed-statistic
-spouting still-passionate super-macho not-yet-shoe-tying six year old.
The inquisitive, precocious four year old is an adventure-loving, voracious-reading almost third grader with a thirst for knowledge, a love for algebra, and the same wise expression he was born with.
They have a sister, a tiny sweet sister with a mind of her own who I neglected to write about for two whole years. It feels futile. I’ve missed too much. Why start again now?
But I remind myself that those years of stories
I haven’t transcribed aren’t reason enough to miss more. Even though it seems that way. Even though those years weigh on me and tell me if I missed them, why start again. All the joy and laughter, sadness and pain, witticisms and growth I could have transcribed shouldn’t stop me from writing the present. But they almost do.
I tell myself that four years seems like an eternity but is in truth just ephemeral in the greater scheme. Heck, I can even backtrack and tell old stories. Just like all those albums I’ll
never soon make of the thousands of images gathering dust on my hard drive.
The present is here. The future’s ahead.
They’re still little.
It’s not over yet.
But I can try.