Growing up

"They grow up so quickly," I am told.  "They grow up so quickly," I am told again.  And again.  And again.  "They grow up so quickly," I am told, "so enjoy it while you can."

Will you stop already?  I know you are right, but I know, too, that you don't remember a damn thing about what it was like to be immersed in baby, to have child wrapped about you, night and day.  You have forgotten the sensation of having a sick infant sneeze directly into your ear canal.  You have misplaced the revenge you swore while being driven to distraction by a four-year-old's inane, unending, pre-dawn retelling of the battle of the purple half ninja/half clone/half tiger/half Bionicle© and the KungFuWonderPets.  The panic you felt as the one child prepared to take off the other child's head in a game the rules of which neither understood but which both are about to learn, that panic is long gone.  So, too, the sight, sound, smell, and sensation otherwise of a shouting infant as it exults, slamming its free hand into its shit-encrusted crotch while you stand there, clutching its other three limbs in one fist, an exhausted wipe in the other, yourself screaming as the remaining wipes fall to the floor past the overfull diaper you hold pinned against the dresser with a knee.  And why do you not remember any of this as you stand there on the sidewalk, in your clean clothing, on your way from a point of your own choosing to a destination entirely suitable for adults, gracing me with your avuncular advice?  Because when, for you, this was all happening you were never allowed to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time and were thus physiologically incapable of laying down new memories.

"They grow up so quickly," to which I reply--to date silently--Imagine what would happen if they grew up slowly.  Just imagine that.