If you have not been able to see the beginning of the Iditarod, you should put it on a bucket, or a list, or both. Like any race, there is excitement, anticipation, prayers barring injury and a general communal pride among the spectators.
I have been watching my children play outside for the past few days in our new snow and felt the time warp of realizing that the three olders are not very little anymore.
For some reason, these emotions melded while at the ceremonial start of the Iditarod this year, and I made one of those quirky connections that usually happen at night and produce the oddest of dreams.
What if raising children is similar to this great race?
You start out with a lot of pomp and circumstance.
High fives and drinks all around.
But as soon as the crowds slip behind you and the miles from under your sled, you realize it is just you and these kids, following an age-old path, worn by generations; but ultimately, it is really down to you and whatever you’ve managed to stuff in that ol’ sled.
And let’s face it, there’s a little less driving and a lot more being drug along than we like to admit. And when we finally can concede that the kids have been doing more leading and we more steering, they are on the horizon, then gone.
Poof. Time has that knack. It is fast, silent, cannot stop quickly for users and runs one way only.
Had there been ‘Danger’ tags attached to their toes, would it have made the realizations now any less jarring?
Nah; everyone warns everyone and yet we’re universally, always stunned by Time’s wily ways.
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