I can't believe the passage of time. Wasn't it just yesterday that I was a teen and knew everything and couldn't wait until I was out on my own so I could act on all my superior knowledge? Wasn't it just yesterday that time couldn't move quickly enough?
And here I am now, 33, with time seemingly a figment of my imagination as it flirtaciously 'fugits' by.
My beautiful son is now 7 months old. Holy guacamole. How did that happen? He's sitting up and playing with toys like a little boy - tossing aside the ones he's tired of playing with like the brothers in A Christmas Story toss aside the socks their aunt gave them for Christmas.
But even more daunting than watching Sydney grow is being forced to face and acknowledge my own age and place in life. No, I'm not old. I know that. But I've reached the age where life forces you to start taking a serious look at things...
My father had a stroke yesterday. Not my grandfather or a great-uncle. My dad. He is still in the ICU and I'm still waiting updates via phone calls from my brother and sister-in-law. At this time, it appears he will suffer some paralysis, but he will survive.
My mother had surgery on her wrist on Thursday. She's doing well, but she has to have the other wrist done in two weeks, as well.
Since when is it my parents who are needing medical attention? This has made me realize that the concentric ripples in the pool of life just got closer to home. It makes me recall the absolute horror my mother felt when she realized Bill Clinton had just been elected president of the United States...not because he's a Democrat, mind you, but because they are from the same generation. That was her 'ah-hah' moment. But I was in high school at the time and knew it would ages before I had to worry about that...