Yesterday morning I was sitting on the couch, sipping coffee to rouse myself into consciousness, when my wife said, “This is Natalie’s last week of summer camp.” 

“Already?” I said,  

“Fifth grade is right around the corner.” 

Closing my eyes, I tightly gripped my coffee mug. But I wasn’t aggravated we’d lost our seasonal day care; I was upset because Natalie was aging out of the summer recreation program she’d attended since before kindergarten. When I dropped her off with the counselors in 2019, she was a mere Guppy. Now, about to enter fifth grade, she’d graduated to Shark. Next year she’ll go to teen camp.  Lord knows what words she’s going to learn there. 

“That was too fast,” I muttered “Much to fast.” 

I have thoroughly enjoyed being a doting father to a wonderful little girl but now, with middle school fast approaching, I know Natalie’s “little kiddom” is coming to an end. It also doesn’t help that she’s starting to smell and losing the baby fat on her cheeks 

“Have you noticed her face looks different?” 

“She’s growing up,” Annie said.  

“I can’t figure out who she’d going to look more like. Me or you? I hope you.”  Then I went to work where the phone rang and rang, all with variations of the same problem.

My mom needs a nursing home. 

My dad can’t live alone anymore. 

My mom’s starting to get dementia. What do I do?” 

As tough as dealing with my parents has been at times, the experience also had a silver lining. Now, when I get calls like these, I’m much more well informed, patient and, most of all empathetic. And, because I shared my experiences with these callers, albeit curated, they were more comfortable talking with me than someone who’d never been through it.

“Everyone’s parents seem to be going off the rails today,” I said to my volunteer after I finished with my last caller.

“It’s hard,” she said. “I remember when I went through it.”  

One of the blessings of my job is that most of my volunteers are my age or older. Since they all had or were currently dealing with aging parents, they provided an excellent shoulder to lean on when I went through the worst of my trials. Slumping in my chair, I turned my head and looked at the picture of Natalie on my desk, taken when she was only four. Having a kid was the best thing that ever happened to me, but I came to fatherhood late. So, the odds are good that when Natalie has to stick me in a nursing home, most of her contemporary’s parents will still be hale and hearty. Unlike me, will she feel alone when that difficult time comes? I hope not. Then again, I could spare her the trouble by just dropping dead. 

Shaking the morose thoughts from my head, I got on with my job, but couldn’t shake the sense I was being carried away by the fast flowing currents of time. This month I’ll have worked at the food pantry nine years – the longest tenure at a job I’ve ever had – but it seems like I got hired only yesterday. And now, when I look at myself in the mirror, I’m surprised by the grey haired guy staring back at me. Tempus fugit, I guess. Oddly enough, seminary and my dad’s death both seem like they happened ages ago despite the decades in between. Time sometimes plays tricks on the mind, but Natalie’s growing up is no illusion, just a constant reminder that change is inevitable.

Well aware it was fleeting, I’ve always been careful to enjoy Natalie’s childhood, but now I find myself focusing on those little things that still make her a kid; the stuffed animals on her bed, wanting someone to go with her into the basement, watching cartoons, being tucked in at night, and excitedly talking about going to an amusement park. It’s almost like I’m using her as an anchor to keep from being swept away, to stay put and savor this time which will never come again. Of course, if I do that, I’ll screw Natalie up.  She’s going to become her own person whether I like it or not and I can’t hold her back just to make myself feel better. 

When evening came, my wife called to say she had to work late, and Natalie and I were on our own for dinner. “You want to go to McDonald’s?” I asked Natalie. 

“Really?” she said. She asks to go to McDonald’s all the time, but I always say no. 

“Why not? We haven’t been there in ages. Get your shoes on.”

After driving through a wicked thunderstorm, we arrived at The Golden Arches and Natalie’s eyes went wide. “They have a new play place!” she squealed. The restaurant had a play area which Natalie loved when she was small, but it was shuttered after COVID hit. “Good” my wife said. “That place always smells like dirty feet.” I guess they’d remodeled it since our last visit. 

“Can I go play?” Natalie said. “Can I?” 

“After you eat.” So, after dining on a meal that would’ve sent my cardiologist into a tizzy, I let Natalie into the playroom. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” 

“But it says children have to be supervised by their parents,” she said, pointing to a sign. Maybe she’ll be a lawyer when she grows up.  

 “I’ll only be a minute.” 

Large decaf in hand, I found a perch in the playroom and read a book on my phone while Natalie played with a bunch of little tykes. Sniffing the air, I realized the offending odors my wife bitched about weren’t present. But then again, the equipment was new and had not yet had time to absorb the effluence of greasy fingered fragrant children. 

“Hey Dad,” I heard Natalie shout, “Look at me!” Lifting my head from my phone, I saw my daughter waving at me from high on the play apparatus. “Way to go, kid,” I said, surprised she was still gung-ho about the play place. Last time I took Natalie to the playground at the park, she said, “That’s for little kids,” but there she was, romping with chicken nugget fueled toddlers with unalloyed joy. 

As lightening flashed outside the rain sheeted windows, I suddenly got the sense time was standing still, and McDonald’s had become the center of all reality.  My little girl was happy and that was all that mattered. Then I realized that I’d been going about things all wrong. I didn’t need to drop anchor to stop the inexorable flow of time because there would always be moments like this to come. They’ll be different than when Natalie was a kid, but just as sweet. Then again, past, present and future are probably all an illusion because, when you think about it, all we truly have is now and what is there is all we’ll ever need. Snapping a picture of Natalie having fun, I texted it to my wife. Still a kid a little longer. 

Driving home as rain lashed the windows, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw Natalie had dozed off. Remembering doing the same thing in the back seat of my dad’s car as he drove me home from some far off place, I knew things had somehow come full circle. Now in the driver’s seat. I remembered what a sage said long ago, “Time is the moving image of eternity.” 

“Carry me inside,” my daughter groggily said, when we pulled into the driveway.

“No way,” I said. “You weigh sixty pounds.” 

Time may be an illusion – but my aching back is very, very real.