Can we slow it down just a bit?

What is it about growing older that time seems to speed up just when we want it to slow down?

I got to thinking about this the other morning with the arrival of spring. Its arrival brings on a parade of important birthdays -- my wife's, my daughter's, my son's and my own.

It's the fact that my daughter Elizabeth is going to be 24 and son David is going to be 21 that is freaking me out. (And I'm not going to even try to venture into my mental state over the fact that I'll be 55, and I'll stay away from public discussion of Jane's age to maintain peace and tranquility at home.)

When the kids were little, time took its time, it seemed. Yes, they had their birthdays and their First Communions and their first days of school, and life as a young parent had a certain, predictable rhythm. For the longest time they seemed forever locked in as just being little kids.

And every morning for what seemed years on end I could wake up and look myself in the mirror and look into a face that wasn't any older than, say, 30 … 35 at the oldest.

There was Little League to look forward to and gymnastics camp and all those things they needed from you because you were the parent and they were the kids.

But then they weren't little kids anymore, and I'm thinking it started when they learned to drive. I remember it being weird at the time that my babies were actually allowed to drive a car. It didn't matter that by virtue of their birth dates they were 16 and therefore allowed by law to begin driving. But they were still my babies and babies aren't allowed to drive.

And they weren't around as much. And they were around even less as they became high school upperclassmen. And they were around even less when they packed off to college.

It's as if the distance of having the children around less often has created some inverse refraction of time. The kids move away, and time seems to shorten.

I'm not the 30 year old in the mirror anymore: the gray will attest to that, and so will the wear lines under the eyes and the folds under the chin and the creakiness of getting out of bed in the morning. It's tough on the psyche to look yourself in that mirror and acknowledge you're the parent of two adult kids.

My daughter Elizabeth will mark her 24th birthday in late April, just shy of her completion of her doctoral graduate work in physical therapy. It's amazing to still think of her as a kid when at 24 I was already two years into a job as a newspaper reporter.

My son David birthday marks his being 21 -- an adult in every way, shape and form. And yet he's the Little Leaguer I want to play catch with now that winter has given way to spring.

Make no mistake -- it's great having adult children. We really enjoy each other's company when we can span time and distance to do it. I just wish the time part of it wasn't speeding by me as quickly as it is.