“I love watching my kids grow up. But I hate it that they’re growing up.”
—Frank Barnett
Peering at my kids, it’s a delight to see them sprout, like tender saplings reaching for the sunlight. Each day, they grow a little taller, hearts brimming with questions, eyes alight with wonder. The melodies of their laughter, echoes of joy. It’s a symphony of life I wouldn’t trade for anything.
But there’s a sting, a subtle thorn in this bouquet of joy. They’re growing up. It’s like sand slipping through my fingers, every moment of their childhood fleeting, ephemeral. The babbles are evolving into sentences, the scribbles into masterpieces, the toddles into strides.
I find myself caught in a complex ballet of sentiments. It’s much like watching a sunset, breathtaking yet transient. You’re captivated by the cascading colors—but with each passing moment, night inches closer. Their growth, their evolution, it’s a sunset of sorts—beautiful and fleeting.
