
Time feels precise. I am not baffled and shaken at the end of the day as the tenth month draws to a close, as she is six months, as he is often talking about his third birthday, as we are seven years married. I do not wonder where it has gone. I cannot beg for it to slow, clinging to its knees as it trods too quickly onward.
Time has been kind, has been slipping me the good stuff on the sly.

“Can you believe it! I feel like she was just born.”
“Don’t blink! They’ll be heading off to college before you know it.”
But I can believe it. Has it been exactly 187 days of Elanor? It has. I have lived every one. Some of them blur together with lack of sleep or a string of the mundane, but I can sleep and wake, and still she is 185, 186, 187 days old. She’s not yet asking for the keys to my car.
Time has been kind. It does not feel like I accidentally blinked once and he went from being a soft newborn in my arms to a little boy throwing rocks in the lake. It feels like a lifetime, his, specifically.