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| A quiet moment with cold tea and old photos - where the rush of the day hasn't yet touched the memories of the past. |
This morning, I was scrolling through old photos on my phone. Something I rarely do. Something that always hurts a little.
There was my son, three years old, holding a wooden spoon like it was the greatest treasure in the world. His cheeks were fuller then. His eyes had that baby softness that disappears without you noticing. He was wearing a blue sweater I remember buying in Portugal, a lifetime ago.
I looked at the date on the photo. 2023. Three years ago. Not even that long.
But when I looked up from my phone and saw him sitting at the table, five years old now, bigger, talking in complete Dutch sentences, reading words I cannot read, I felt something shift inside me. A quiet shock. A gentle pain.
Wasn't he just learning to walk yesterday?
Wasn't he just saying his first words?
Wasn't he just a baby in my arms, small enough to hold with one hand?
I sat there with my cold tea, watching him eat his breakfast, and I realized: time moves faster than we think. So fast that we do not notice it passing until we look back and see how much has already gone.
The Morning Routine
Every morning, the same routine: wake up, make tea, wake my son, get him dressed, breakfast, walk to school.
I have done this hundreds of times. Thousands maybe. It feels ordinary. It feels like nothing special.
But one day, I will wake up and he will not be here. He will be grown. He will have his own life, his own routine, his own mornings in some city I cannot imagine. And I will give anything to have just one more ordinary morning back. One more walk to school. One more small hand in mine.
That thought stops me sometimes, right in the middle of tying his shoes. I pause, my fingers on the laces, and I think: remember this. Remember this ordinary moment. Because one day, it will be a memory.
The Middle Generation Feeling
I am forty-something now. Old enough to have wrinkles, young enough to still feel like a boy inside. Old enough to be a father, young enough to still need my own father.
That is the strange place I live in. The middle.
When I call my father in Nepal, I hear his voice and I am a child again. I need him. I miss him. I want him to tell me everything will be okay.
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| Being the bridge: Old enough to be the steady strength my son needs, yet young enough to still long for the steady hand of my own father. |
When my son calls me "Papa," I am the strong one. I am the one who must be steady, reliable, present. I am the one he needs.
And somewhere between these two, I forget about myself. I forget that I am aging too. That my hair is greying. That my back hurts sometimes. That I am not as young as I used to be.
But the photos do not lie. The dates do not lie. Time is passing. For all of us.
When Did My Parents Become Old?
I remember my father as a young man. Strong shoulders. Steady hands. The kind of man who could carry a sick child for three hours through the dark and never complain.
Last month, I saw a photo someone sent from the village. My father, 75 now, standing in front of the house he built. He looked small. Smaller than I remembered. His shoulders were not as straight. His hands, the same hands that carried me, were holding a walking stick.
When did that happen? When did he become old? I was not paying attention. I was too busy living my life, building my career, raising my son. I missed it. The way you miss the exact moment when afternoon becomes evening, when you are too busy to look at the sky.
I called him that night. We talked about nothing: the buffalo, the weather, who got married. But inside, I was screaming: I see you, buba. I see that you are old. I see that time is running. I see that every call might be one of the last.
But I did not say that. I just said "thikai chu, buba" and hung up and cried where no one could see.
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| Between Nepal and Europe, time flies faster than any plane. A reminder that every call and every 'thikai chu' carries the weight of years passing by. |
The Ordinary Days I Rushed Through
I think about all the days I wished would pass faster:
- The sleepless nights when my son was a baby. I wished for morning.
- The long afternoons at work. I wished for evening.
- The difficult phases of parenting. I wished for him to be older, easier.
And now I look back and think: why did I rush? Those sleepless nights were exhausting, yes, but they were also the only nights I would ever have with a newborn in my arms. Those long afternoons were part of building this life. Those difficult phases were just him growing, changing, becoming.
I rushed through so many ordinary days, thinking they were nothing special. But they were everything. They were my life. They were his childhood. They were the only version of today we would ever get.
The Photos We Forget to Take
We take so many photos now. Our phones are full of them. Thousands of moments, captured and stored and never looked at again.
But the moments we do not capture, those are the ones I miss most.
The way my son laughs when I tickle him. I have no photo of that sound.
The way my wife's hand feels in mine. No photo can capture that warmth.
The way my father says my name. No video can hold that love.
We think photos preserve memories. But they only capture the surface. The real moments, the feelings, the connections, the ordinary magic, those live only in our hearts. And if we are not paying attention, we miss them entirely.
What I Have Learned
Time moves faster than we think. That is not a new idea. Everyone knows it. Everyone says it.
But knowing and feeling are different. You can know that childhood is short, and still spend half of it looking at your phone. You can know that parents age, and still forget to call for weeks. You can know that today matters, and still wish it away.
Here is what I have learned, standing in the middle between my father and my son:
Nothing is permanent. Not the hard times. Not the good times. Not any of it.
The ordinary days are the ones you will miss most. Not the vacations. Not the celebrations. The Tuesday mornings. The walks to school. The quiet dinners.
You cannot slow time down. But you can pay attention. You can notice. You can be present. You can hold the moments while they are still here.
The people you love will not always be here. Your children will grow. Your parents will age. Your partner will change. Love them now. Tell them now. Hold them now.
You are aging too. While you watch your children grow, while you worry about your parents, do not forget about yourself. You are here too. You matter too. Your life is passing, just like theirs.
I am learning that the ordinary days are the ones you will miss most. These are the lessons no one tells you until you are standing in the middle of them, watching the clock run.
Tonight
Tonight, I will do something different.
When my son asks me to play, I will not say "in a minute." I will put down my phone and play now.
When my wife talks about her day, I will really listen. Not half-listen while thinking about work.
When I call my father, I will not rush. I will let the silence stretch. I will let him hear that I am here, really here, not just going through the motions.
Because one day, this version of today will be a memory. One day, I will look back at this ordinary Wednesday and wish I could have it back.
I do not want to wish. I want to be here. Now. Fully.
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| One day, these busy mornings will be silent. This empty table is a reminder to cherish the noise, the crumbs, and the chaos while they are still here. |
What I Want You to Know
If you are reading this, I want you to stop for a moment. Just one moment.
Look around. Where are you? Who is with you? What are the sounds, the smells, the feelings of this ordinary moment?
Maybe you are on a bus, going to work. Maybe you are sitting in your kitchen, like me. Maybe your children are playing nearby. Maybe you are alone, in silence.
Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, this moment will never come again.
You cannot get it back. You cannot redo it. You cannot save it for later.
All you can do is be here. Now. Fully.
That is not a lesson from a book. That is not philosophy. That is life. Real life. Your life.
A Request
I would love to hear from you.
What is one ordinary moment from your past that you wish you could have back? A moment you did not realize was precious until it was gone?
Or maybe a moment from today that you want to remember forever?
Share in the comments below. Or just hold it in your heart, the way I hold mine.
Because we are all in this together. All watching time pass. All trying to hold on to what matters. All learning, slowly, that the ordinary days are the ones that count.
Closing
My son just called me from the other room. "Papa! Kom je?"
I am coming, beta. I am coming.
And this time, I will not rush.
With love,
-Bitty
🙏❤️
Tonight, sit with your family five minutes longer than usual. Just five minutes. That is all. But those five minutes? They will last forever.
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