Dear Time,

I have a bone to pick with you.

I would really appreciate it if you would get it together here. My girls are growing up waaaay to fast. Why do you always seem to speed up when I am trying to savor every moment of these little angels' existence, but you have no problem hitting your brakes on during a meeting when I am dying to bolt for an afternoon of fun in the sun?

What's this?  You're called "Father" Time?  Doubt it.  If you were a parent you would fly through those first few sleepless months and leave teething in the dust.  Then you would draw out those evenings of playtime in the floor and hold out for bedtime as long as possible.  You are obviously not a father.

The weekend flew by crazy fast and Bella is already back with her mom for ten days.  Do you know what that means, Mister?  That means one-third of our Summer visit with my angel is over!  But I bet you'll have no problem dragging out the next five days away while I'm away from Luke and Claire and then five more days until my family is together again. 

And if I know you, which I do, you'll speed up for the last four weeks with my sweet Bella, but slow to a screeching halt for five months until she comes back for Christmas, won't you?  Maybe that's just how you roll, but I don't like it very much!

Right now I am in nowhere North Dakota waiting for my connecting flight on a puddle jumper plane to an even smaller town where the only hotel is a Super 8.  Think you could speed up a bit?  There isn't even a McDonald's in this airport and the creepy guy sitting next to me could have come straight from Deliverance.

But no, you're probably chuckling right now at my situation, ready to throw it in high gear when you very well please, likely when I get home from this business trip and want to soak in the weekend.  You are now on my bad side, and for very good reason.

I think you need to check yourself.

Thanks,
Gini