Lately, every time I look at one of my boys, I find myself thinking the same thing.
"Dude...slow down on the whole growing up thing, will ya?"
I don't have babies anymore. I no longer have little boys. I'm not sure I've even got "kids" in the stereotypical sense. No, what I have is one son who is chomping at the bit to do everything his older brother does, only sooner, and a teenager who is morphing into an adult so much faster than I could possibly be ready for and so much slower than he dreams about.
We once had racetracks strung across my living room, with mismatched driver/navigator pairs like the Fisher Price mom (remember her, with the blue wooden body and the plastic blond pony tail hair?) and Raphael from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Little green army men were stationed for protection and to man the lemonade stands all along those stretches of orange highway. At one end was the house, carefully constructed out of empty cereal boxes; and the other end seemed to go on forever. Now, we're filling out job applications, dating, driving and coming up with convincing arguments for getting a cell phone earlier than we had originally agreed on.
Slow down. Take the time to build more cities and RV's out of Legos. Play in the rain and splash in the puddles. Pick the cereal at the store solely for the prize shown on the box. Play cars, hide and seek, and giggle under the covers at bedtime while you think if mama can't see you she can't make you go to sleep.
Please, my babies, slow down. Every time I blink, you're another year older and another inch taller. Another year grown and another year closer to taking that leap out of my little nest and into the big world you just can't wait to dive into.
At least give me time to make sure your parachute is packed, okay?