It all happens so fast. In the blink of an eye your child that was a slobbering pile of goo is suddenly writing a dissertation on genetic engineering. One day you just wake up and you realize that your children have survived their childhood and that you’ll never get it back.

I, of course, do not speak from experience. My youngest daughter is still a slobbering mass of goo and my eldest is still dressed as a gypsy, prancing around the house like a maniac singing songs that only make sense to her.

But tomorrow I could wake up and one will be an astronaut and the other a physicist (one can hope). It all changes so quickly. In the turning of a season, a child grows and matures. They become wise, beyond anything we could ever understand.

Case in point. A few weeks ago we were driving to the park to play at the coolest playground in town. Matilda pipes up from the back seat, “How will the world end?”

My lovely wife explains the concept of the life span of stars and what will probably happen to our sun. Matilda exclaims, “Well that would be an event!”

It sure would. There was no fear in the voice, but more of a curiosity. As if the Universe is a playmate that’s totally unpredictable. The Universe has untreated ADD. One day it’s the dinosaurs, the next humanity the next it just moves on completely.

These thoughts were spurred by reviewing videotape of the last few years. There was Matilda, pre-kindergarten, cute as a button. My God, did we realize how cute she was then? Or did we take it for granted? She pranced around and played and sang and was just irresistible. At that point Baby Gertrude wasn’t even a thought. She hadn’t passed the transom of our minds and a remote possibility. We were still saying, “When we have a baby . . .”

And now we do. A nine-month-old baby. One that is slowly coming into her own consciousness. Amazed at the world around her because, well, it’s all new. Each taste, smell, sight, sound is a new experience. She’s never done many of the things we take for granted and can sit for an hour mesmerized by a piece of fuzz.

We took a walk around the complex lake the other day. Just the baby and me. A duck walked across our path and Gertrude couldn’t stop staring. She just watched that strange creature. It looked soft, something she’d like to put in her mouth. Yet, it made this horrible guttural sound. Why? Why did it do that? What would it feel like? What would it taste like? Would it be something to play with?

Every day is a new adventure. And each adventure gives a child a new piece of knowledge that allows her to move on to the next. Slowly they accumulate this knowledge base that defines who they are, what they are interested in. And maybe I’ll be able to share in it. Or maybe they’ll leave me in the dust.

For now, I’m allowed to share. Last night, as Matilda and I worked our way through Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, we reached a point that we felt it was impossible to stop reading. So we bargained with mom and she let us stay up late.

Even that extra chapter wasn’t enough. Matilda begged for another chapter. “PLEASE” she cried. “Just one more.” Mom said no. It was too late. Matilda pleaded with me, “You’re my partner. We have to read one more! Come on partner!”

But mom was right. It was too late.

But now I know that I’m her partner. That Harry Potter means something to her like it does to me. Perhaps someday we’ll reminisce about our time reading together. But when?

She’ll be an adult. Gertrude will be an adult. My girls will be women and I . . . I will just be silly old Dad. No longer the hero or partner, but just a man. They won’t rush up to me screaming, “Daddy” anymore. More likely they’ll just say, “Hey dad” without looking up.

For now, I’ll relish that giant “S” the girls see on my chest. It’s only temporary. But for now, I can chase off lightning, lift amazing weights and vanquish evil with the flick of my wrist.

And I’ll gladly do it. It’s my job. After all, I’m a Dad.