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朋友们告诉我：“孩子们长得太快了!”18年后，我终于体会到了其中的含义…… It’s nearly the end of summer break and my son goes out with friends. Ten minutes after he leaves home, I receive his text: Here. It’s the same message I’ve received hundreds of times before—our agreed-upon shorthand to reassure me, and probably him, in some still-unexamined way, that he has arrived safely at his destination.[1] In a matter of days he’ll head to college, and this routine, along with many others that have framed[2] our days and nights, will come to an end. Reading that text triggers[3] images stored safely away in my memory, a tiny book of our lives together. My constant companion of nine months emerges with his eyes wide open.[4] He’s placed on my chest. I feel his heartbeat reverberating[5] through mine. All I see are beginnings. Friends who visit caution that time is elusive, that he’ll grow up faster than I can imagine, and to savor every moment.[6] But I can’t hear them; it’s all too clichéd[7] and my child has only just arrived. He’s intoxicating[8]. I’m filled with a renewed sense of purpose, of hope, of love. The first few months after he’s born are topsy-turvy[9]—day is night, night is day. When sleep finally returns, so does work. My business suit is tight, my mind preoccupied[10]. I pump milk in a cold, gray bathroom stall.[11] His teeth begin to appear. Baby bottles give way to solid foods. He points high above his chair to the clock on the wall. “Clock,” he says. It’s his first word, minus the “l,” and it makes me laugh. Soon he is walking, skipping, making angels in the snow. I’m promoted at work. It becomes harder to find the time to make playdates and pediatrician appointments.[12] At lunch I read books about nurturing, teaching, inspiring your child. He calls my office with the help of his baby-sitter. “Momma,” he says, “I’m making you a present.” | 
