My parents’ home has a measuring wall. It’s what you would expect a measuring wall to look like – an exposed, weathered two-by-four tucked away in a dark but special corner of my childhood home.

It’s not my wall, but it belongs to our son. Selfishly I keep an archive of his growth among the memories of my youth. Pen and marker enshrine millimeters of development with dated lines.

With every visit to my parents’ home we scribe a fresh mark. It has become tradition and is a moment of excitement for my son, parents, my wife and myself. Rushing down the stairs to the basement of the warm bungalow; grandpa equips himself with the nearest writing tool and the steel black measuring angle he keeps in his workroom.

Our son smiles with his back to the wall, daring to perch himself on his toes as my father prepares to solidify the moment in time. Symbolically, the past marks are behind our son as he optimistically looks forward. He sees just as far as the wall in front of him will allow. This wall extends with each new line.

Once documented, we jubilantly discuss how our son has grown and race back up the stairs at the pace expected of an energetic four-year-old. Until the next trip home, this wall sits dormant in the shadows.

Often I steal time to visit our measuring wall. I simultaneously curse it and love it. I am drawn to its sentimentality. It is a bittersweet reminder of life’s deeply cherished, ephemeral moments with my son. I laugh at the priceless memories and shutter at the difficult times:

The first time my wife and I embraced him together, knowing that our family was now complete;

Sleepless nights, driving him around the dark streets of our city praying that he would drift off, if only briefly;

Watching him take his first steps, running between his mother and I, laughing joyously at his milestone achievement;

Hospital visits, scraped knees, goose-eggs and night terrors;

And the conflicting emotions of emptiness and pride as I dropped him off for his first day of school.

Staring at this old wall, it is symbolic of life. It’s foundation of wood, like life, is hard and finite. Every piece, a part of a whole rooted in its mother earth – milled and shaped by the machine of its past. Smooth and rough patches, dark knots and voids; blemishes and beauty unique to all of us.

When we have children, we become the measuring wall. The dark grainy nature of ourselves is brightened with each coloured line, each inked mark, and each date placed on us. Although we continue to move through life, weathering as all living things do, we affix ourselves in a safe place where our children can imprint on us. We remain constant, strong, and supportive.

The lines we etch on the walls of our homes are only as new as the ink is wet. Once placed, they become a unique memory. Time passes at an extraordinary speed so we cherish every millisecond that we can.

One day the lines will outgrow my wall. And those of the past will be faded ink, leaving the score marks that all parents are measured by – the legacy that is our children.

Until that day we will continue to make our marks, and move forward. And I will continue to steal my moments with the measuring wall.