… Well, that’s because it doesn’t.  As much as we might like for it to, it won’t.
Time ticks on.
We get older.
It’s just what happens.

Maybe it’s because I’m a man… or maybe it’s because I’m younger than Angie is, but it doesn’t bother me that I’m in my “late 20s” anywhere near as much as it bothers her.  Today as we filled out forms for the 3rd time in our dentist’s office waiting room, she looked at me and said, “How old am I?”

I paused as if it were a trick question… “28,” I replied.

“Oh my gosh.  Oh my gosh! Oh MY GOSH!”

“What?”

“I’m gonna be 29 next month.  That means I’m almost 30! OH MY GOSH!”

I don’t get it.  I keep hearing that 40 is the new 30 anyway.  Which would make 30 the new 20, which means by new standards we’re still teenagers.

+++++

What I do get is not wanting Isaac to grow up to fast.  At 9 weeks old, he’s doubled in size since we came home from the NICU 7 weeks ago.  He’s starting to recognize us and smile at us (for more than just gas purposes).  He’s even starting to squeeze around my neck a little bit when I hold him up and scrunch his nose at the tickle of my beard.  Everyone always says it goes so fast, and apparently it does.  But, as much as I want him to stay a little guy, I’m really excited for that day that he REALLY squeezes my neck when he hugs me.  I’m excited to play catch and hike and bike, and yes, even go fishing!

I don’t want to make him grow up too fast.  It’s a terrible part of our culture right now.  So many families expect their kids to be adult at 7 years old.  One of our neighbors has his 12 year old son cut the grass and yells at him when he doesn’t do it right.  He doesn’t teach him how to adjust to fix it, he just yells and says do it right next time.  It breaks my heart.  It makes me want to walk over and help the kid know what it means to take care of something, how to value his work, and try to put a smile on his face.  I mean for the love of GOD, he’s just a kid!

+++++

So, Isaac, I’m going to do my best to let you be a kid for as long as I can.
Get dirty.
Stomp in puddles.
Sleep in late.
Pretend you’re Babe Ruth every time you step up to the plate.
Stare into the sky and wonder.
Pick your nose.
Fart.
Pick up dead snakes from the side of the road and bring them in and freak out your mom.
Get in trouble.

But, know, there is nothing you could ever do to make me love you less.
Nothing.
Not a thing.

PJT//