Time, please stop.

It is early, not quite 8:00am. I am sitting at the computer, my normal spot on a lazy summer morning.

My son comes down from upstairs. I hear his soft footsteps come up behind me as I swirl the office chair around to face him.

"Good morning, baby," I greet him.

"Morning, Mama," is his soft reply.

"Come sit on my lap," I summon him.

He climbs onto my lap, still warm from his bed. He draws up his long, lanky, 5-year-old legs and curls into a ball on my lap. I wrap my arms around him and hold him tightly.

I push and sway, turning the office chair into an impromptu rocking chair.

"Time, please stop!" I scream in my head, as I hold my baby boy in my arms.

My mind drifts back several years and a two-year-old boy is curled up on my lap in a glider, curling his hair between the fingers of his right hand. We are moving gently back and forth in the chair.

"Time, please stop!" I scream in my head, as I hold my baby boy in my arms.

My mind drifts back a little further and a newborn is curled up in my arms. We are gently rocking. His eyes are closed and a slight smile passes across his face.

"Time, please stop!" I scream in my head, as I hold my baby boy in my arms.

But my pleas are not heard. The long, lanky,5-year-old legs slowly uncurl and he pushes himself out of my lap. "I'm gonna go play now, Mama," he says.

"O.k., baby. Go play," I say, as I turn my chair around to face my computer again, silently wiping away the tears that are streaming down my cheeks.