The surest measure of the passage of time

Children, in my mind, are the surest measure of the passage of time. The start squatty and small, yet day be day (with some love and some food) they grow… and grow and grow and grow.
Before you know it,
they look like sausages stuffed in too-small clothing,
they are bumping both the top and the bottom of a bed,
they are grabbing everything within reach,
they are creeping across the floor like… like the slow steady creep of time itself.

And so, I’ve come full circle… if you want to keep track of time, have a baby.