When we moved to our current house, eight years ago, I bought a bag of 100 daffodil bulbs. It seemed a ridiculous number, a luxurious indulgence, and as I planted the brown lumps I imagined a riot of yellow color, uncountable riches poking through the ground to announce Spring’s arrival. It’s my favorite season, and in the time we’ve been here the daffodils have naturalized, spreading throughout the garden. But it’s not the blanket of uninterrupted color I thought it would be. The hundred bulbs that seemed to be so plentiful when I was digging them into the ground turned out to be not quite enough.
Last week I took the kids to the doctor’s office for a checkup. I was leafing through a parenting magazine when this statistic caught my eye: There are approximately 940 Saturdays between when you bring your baby home from the hospital and when she heads off to college. I’m no mathematician, but that number seems about right.
Almost 1,000 days. It would have seemed a lifetime to me, all those years ago when I first became a parent. But now I’m over halfway there, and the days are slipping through my fingers. The harder I try to hold on, to pack each moment with meaning, the faster they go. One thousand Mondays to kiss a sleep-scented, bed loving boy awake. One thousand Sundays to curl up in the sun with my book-devouring daughter. One thousand weekends, while I blink and each crop of daffodils grows and fades, a reminder of how fleeting is Spring, the giddiest, most promising season of all.