I was a little busy. I missed everything. The time difference and a two month old baby meant that I never saw Michael Phelps swim in Beijing. Not even once.
Now Max is four years old.
I’m feeling nostalgic about sleepless nights and difficult feedings. Yesterday Max tore around the house with his homemade rain stick pretending it was the Olympic torch. I realized that the Summer Olympics will always be a benchmark for his growth, something that slams my heart with sudden memories of the early blurry days of his life. So much growth happens in four years. Next time around he will be eight years old.
That seems impossible. And yet, isn’t that the thrill of the Olympics? Watching the impossible unfold right before your eyes.