Eight Years

You ever think of your life in eight-year chunks?

It's an odd thing to do. Most of the time you're thinking two years ahead. Or five years. Or 10.

But eight years. Enough time to be interesting, right? But not so dramatic as a whole decade.

And really it's not that long.

You know how I know?

Eight years ago, I had a three-year-old son starting preschool. I had a 12-week-old daughter who had just started sleeping through the night. The redhead was not even a twinkle in my eye. And the ex and I had just quit our marriage counselor, against her advice (gee, wonder how that went).

I blinked. That's all I did. I blinked, and eight years went flying by.

In eight more years, that three year old will be 19, finishing his second year of college and waiting, patiently and with all due respect for the law, through the 17 months between him and legal beer. That 12-week-old will be driving and dating, and I'm honestly not sure which of those is more startling. And my twinkle will be 12, almost 13, and driving the girls to distraction in middle school.

They're growing up on me, you know. And eight years, it's just a blink away.

Guess there's a lesson in there somewhere: Don't blink.