Yesterday afternoon the six of us (and nine assorted other relatives) were at the Manassas National Battlefield Park, near my parents' retirement home. I had the two year-old, the youngest of my four, on my back when an older lady approached me and commented that I must have drawn the short straw, implying that I got the chore no one else wanted, carrying the baby.
I quickly replied that I was loving this. "Well, I think it's beautiful," she responded and turned away.
I wish I hadn't been so intent on remembering whose army was behind which hill at what time or I would have engaged her a little bit more.
"Thank you! This is my fourth child and compared to my third at this age, she's a feather.
"Feel those fingers clasped so tightly around my neck? See that downy head nestled on my shoulder? Hear those chirps about this and about that?
"I only hope I can remember these things into my seventies and eighties and beyond. You see, I've only been doing this for nearly twelve years now, and I rather feel like time is running out.
"She's likely our last (I won't say our last) and outside of time with nieces and nephews, waiting for grandchildren seems almost unbearable."
Twelve years. Is that short or long?
Time's running out.
