It was another busy school day.
I was filling thermoses and water bottles, serving breakfast and packing lunch, and pouring coffee and tea. Devices were charging, and our pet birds were chirping for fresh food.
Every few minutes I would call out the time: “Six thirty-four!”
I was rinsing dishes in the sink when my younger son—who’s 15—came into the kitchen. He peeked inside the new stove, which had been delivered the day before. He closed the oven door and turned to me.
“So, what will it be like when we go to college?” he said. “Will you miss us?”
In the buzz of our chaotic morning, his question startled me.
“Of course,” I said. “I mean, I’ll be excited for you because I love watching you grow, and college will be fun, but of course I’ll miss you.”
Suddenly I realized my eyes were full of tears.
Because time does go so fast. It feels like it was just days ago when we had two preschoolers running laps around the living room, arguing over who got to play with the blue truck. Now they are both running toward college and all that comes after it.
And of course I’ll miss them when they’re not here all the time.
I’m acutely aware of the passing of time. And I’m thankful to be here, to be with my family, to have the honor and joy of doing the daily tasks and the bigger tasks to help these boys become men. My days are incredibly full, and my heart is even fuller.
Of course, the busy mornings of school prep are not the time when I get wistful about the passage of time. Every morning, we are working toward a common goal, launching everyone into the day, getting out the door to scrape the windshield and drive to school.
But I do know I will miss it. I will miss having everyone under the same roof. I want to watch our sons grow because I am grateful to be here to see them becoming the people God created them to be. But I’m not eager for it to go too quickly.
Catholics talk about memento mori—being aware of our death and recognizing that time is fleeting. Tomorrow is not promised. We have only today. That’s not meant to instill panic or fear. It’s meant to inspire gratitude and a greater sense of purpose. It’s meant to remind us to live and love in the now. And it does—even when the now is in the midst of a morning scramble to get children off to school.
So, I stood in the kitchen on a weekday morning looking up at this child who’s taller than I am and who so skillfully reads my emotions. But we had to get this day on its way.
“When you go to college,” I asked him back, “Will you miss me? Will you miss having a personal chef? Who will cook for you at 10:30 at night?”
We had a quick laugh. Then we were back in our rhythm of packing and eating and getting everything together to start another full day.
But I’ve thought of our son’s question several times since that moment in the kitchen. And I’m thankful for the reminder that life is moving fast—and it is such a gift to have today.
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