But it all stays frozen for only a brief season, and then inevitably it thaws out. Just like time with my babes. First as a steady drip; crawling, walking, forming words. Then a small rivulet; the dimples on their hands disappearing into boy skin, the wriggling from my grasp to explore the world. The rivulets join other rivulets; their tousled morning heads reaching ever higher measured against the height of my heart. The rivulets become streams; boy-man muscles and deepening voices. The streams form a flowing river, this river with a current and beckoning of its own. And all I can do is step in momentarily and let it wash over me and try to hold the running water with the inefficient vessel of my cupped hands. To hold in my hands and heart all of these coursing moments, try to freeze them in my mind. Over the years there have been times when my soul has groaned with the heart pain of not being able to freeze time. When I have found myself whispering prayers of begging, “Please stretch this time out, please! It’s all going so fast.” The river though is a force of its own, and so I grab moments. And right now I’m frantic with the grabbing, the begging. Writing this out is an attempt to just lean back and let the current carry me with it, rather than stubbornly trying to push my way upstream. To relax and be grateful for this time now.