Noticing Time: A Mother's Pause

Tonight, I held my little daughter in my arms, after she has just woken up crying in her bed and something shifted. I had a few of those moments in the past. Where despite the hassle in my life and my head I would simply pause. Pause and recognize the moment.

This time the pause came from noticing how tall she already was. It might sound silly as of course I held her every day and I knew with almost two she was a considerable amount more inches tall than a year ago. And yet, it triggered something. Actually it literally hit me. Our little baby was growing at a super speed. It felt like she wasn’t even a toddler anymore - but I child. A little human being with her own will who, despite some practical things and a bunch of cuddles - especially after another encounter of imbalance, was absolutely independent. Where was my baby?

This question of course was followed by an immediate “she will always be my baby” but the truth is, in every days hustling I forgot to stand still. To breath, to observe, to take it all in. Because everything will pass, there’s not a single moment that will repeat itself.

I held her and felt the weight of time. Not just the physical weight of her taller frame resting against me, but the invisible weight of moments already passed—first smiles, first steps, first words, the endless rhythm of feeding, crying, sleeping, changing, growing.

And all at once, I realized: This season is already behind us. Not disappearing—but folding gently into memory.

My logical brain got back to me immediately, defending the position with a “but there are still many to come! And it’s normal…”. But emotions and logic rarely go together.

There’s no warning for how fast it goes. No sign on the wall that says: "Today is the last time she’ll fit in your arms this way." No alert that tells you: "This is the last time she will say that word in that funny, toddler way." Like she used to say “Dadda” and now it’s a clear and loving “Daddy”. Whe moments fade and there’s an undelining realisation that one day even the memory will fade.

We think time is linear, measurable, ticking by at an even pace. But in motherhood, time warps. Some days are endless. Some hours stretch painfully long. And yet, the years vanish like mist. Generations for generations.

I once read that the days are long, but the years are short. But I think it’s more than that. The soul of motherhood exists in the spaces between time. In the pauses. The breath. The gaze. The stillness before sleep. The weight of a small hand in yours. The worries when your child is unhappy or sick.

It’s not the milestones that cut deepest—it’s the quiet moments when you realize a phase has ended, and you never marked its passing.

Tonight reminded me that I don’t want to miss it. Not just the big things. But the little things too. The way she tucks her little hand into my shirt to find comfort. The way she says “Mummy” like it’s a spell. The way her eyelashes rest on her cheek when she falls asleep after crying.

It won’t last forever.

But I can hold and treasure it. Just for now.
And maybe that’s enough.