I’ve been thinking a lot lately about time.
Not the work kind of time. Not the schedule kind of time. Not the “I have too much to do and not enough hours in the day” kind of time.
I mean the quiet kind of time.
The kind of time you only notice when your little one walks into the room and you realize they are not the same child they were a few months ago.
That has been hitting me hard lately.
Over these last couple of years, I feel like I’ve already met three different versions of my child.
First, there was the little baby stage.
That tiny little person who depended completely on mom and dad. The stage where everything revolved around feeding, changing, naps, cuddles, rocking, and just being there. He needed us for everything. He needed our arms, our comfort, our voice, our patience, and honestly, sometimes more energy than we thought we had.
At the time, those days felt long.
But looking back now, they were also beautiful.
Then came the next version of him.
The little baby who started exploring the world.
The one learning how to move, how to walk, how to make sounds, how to reach for things, how to laugh at the simplest stuff. Everything was fascinating to him. A light switch. A toy. A spoon. A dog walking by. A sound outside. Something falling on the floor for the hundredth time.
It was like watching someone discover life from scratch.
And now, I’m seeing another version of him again.
Now he’s becoming this little toddler with his own personality, his own preferences, and his own little way of doing things.
He has foods he likes. Activities he wants to do. Books he wants to read. Things that make him laugh. Things that upset him. Little expressions that tell you exactly how he feels before he even says a word.
And now he’s speaking more. He’s putting sentences together. He’s telling us what he wants, what he doesn’t want, what he sees, what he’s thinking.
It is honestly amazing to watch.
Sometimes I catch myself just staring at him and thinking, “When did you become this person?”
Because that’s the part I don’t think I fully understood before becoming a dad.
Your child doesn’t just grow.
They change.
They become new versions of themselves over and over again. And each version only stays for a little while.
That baby stage? Gone.
That wobbly little learning-to-walk stage? Gone.
And one day, this toddler stage will be gone too.
That doesn’t mean the next stage won’t be good. I’m sure it will be. Every stage seems to bring something new and beautiful with it.
But it does make me want to slow down and pay attention.
It makes me want to put the phone down more. It makes me want to sit on the floor a little longer. It makes me want to read the same book again, even if I’ve already read it ten times. It makes me want to listen to the little stories, even when they don’t fully make sense yet. It makes me want to enjoy the small moments while they are still small.
Because one day, I know I’ll miss them.
I’ll miss the little voice. I’ll miss the tiny hands. I’ll miss the funny words. I’ll miss the way he runs over for comfort. I’ll miss the way he looks at the world like everything is brand new.
Being a dad has taught me that quality time doesn’t always have to be some big planned event.
Sometimes it’s sitting together on the couch with a book.
Sometimes it’s playing on the floor after a long day.
Sometimes it’s going outside and letting them look at rocks, sticks, leaves, snow, mud, or whatever else caught their attention that day.
Sometimes it’s just being present enough to notice who they are becoming.
And I think that’s the part I want to hold onto.
I’ve been blessed to spend these years with my child. Not because every day has been easy, because it hasn’t been. Parenting is tiring. It tests your patience. It changes your routines, your sleep, your priorities, and sometimes your whole identity.
But even with all of that, I wouldn’t trade it.
Because hidden inside the tired days are the moments that matter most.
The smiles. The cuddles. The little milestones. The first words. The favourite books. The silly laughs. The random hugs. The tiny moments that don’t feel tiny once you realize how fast they pass.
That’s what I’m trying to remember.
The dishes can wait sometimes. The chores can wait sometimes. The emails, the projects, the noise, and the stress can wait sometimes.
But these years don’t wait.
They keep moving.
And my job as a dad is not to freeze time, because I can’t.
My job is to be there for it.
To notice it. To appreciate it. To show up while it’s happening.
Because before I know it, he’ll become another version of himself again.
And I don’t want to miss the one standing in front of me today.
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