Time

Time is such a funny thing. So paradoxical.

It can move so slowly. Or so incredibly quickly.

It can seem like you have more time than you know what to do with. Or like there are not enough hours in the day to get done the bare minimum of tasks.

You can count the seconds until something is over. Or you can look back one day and realize so much has slipped past you without you even realizing.

Having a child has only made my perception of, and relationship with, time even more ambiguous. Sometimes the minutes drag on like hours--when she's crying, in the dark of the night when she wakes again, and again, and again, when we have the afternoon stretching in front of us like a field and she is not interested in walking/singing/reading/playing/bouncing/rolling. Other times I look at the clock--or the calendar--and it takes a moment for reality to register, that the day is over, that already more than four months have passed since her birth, that time is passing so very, very quickly.

So much of my life now is centered around time. Is it time for her to eat? Is it time for her to nap? How long has she been awake? How long did she sleep for her naps? Is it naked time? Bath time? Bed time? What time is it when she stirs and wakes in the middle of the night? How long do we let her cry before rushing in to scoop her up and reassure her that we are there, that Mommy and Daddy are there and that everything is okay? Is it time for me to get up and pump yet? How much time does she spend on her tummy every day? How old is she? How much time has passed since xyz? How much time is left until xyz?

I spend my days at work torn between actually working and using the time to think about her or do research about things like developmental milestones and cradle cap and sleep training and the pros and cons of starting solids . . . all the things I wonder about when I'm with her but can't seem to find the time to learn more about. So I end up not having enough time, again--not enough time to get all my work done, not enough time to answer all my questions.

Evenings slide by in a flash of eating, playing, naked time, bath, eating, and then before I know it she's falling asleep in my arms and we are putting her down for the night. Not enough time together. Never enough time. Not to do all the things I want to be doing with her--tummy time to strengthen her back and neck muscles and practicing rolling over and sitting up to strengthen her stomach muscles and standing up to strengthen her leg muscles and independent play to strengthen her independence and walks outside to get her fresh air and what-about-mom-and-baby-cuddle-time??? Some evenings I just sit with her on my lap and we read books and chat back and forth about our days and I let her tiny little hands explore every inch of my face and we don't get around to ANY of the things that I "should" be doing with her. And part of me feels guilty, like time is flying by and we need to be helping her grow and learn things and get stronger. And part of me feels defiant, like I don't give a rat's ass about all the things we "should" be doing with her, I just want to hold her and love her and not worry about any of it.

That's really the crux of it. I want to say fuckitall and not worry about anything but loving her, trusting that all her skills, all her development will come in due time. But then I remember that time isn't something you can get back. There are no do-overs. Once this second is gone, it is gone. Once her third month is over, it's over. She has either learned something by now or she hasn't. Too much defiance, too much ignorance of that fact and baby girl will slip further and further behind. At least, that is my fear. And that is what drives me to take her off my lap in our hour together at night and work with her--in the time we have--on all the things I feel will benefit her.

And then there's the rest of life--the cooking and laundry and cleaning and paying bills and washing bottles and spending time with our cats and let's not forget giving TH the time and attention he deserves.

If I had a super power, it would be the ability to stop time. To give myself the gift of time to fit in whatever it is that needs a few more hours' worth of attention.

I end this post looking at the clock, knowing I have to leave in three minutes to go to her and nurse her during my lunch break. Our 45 minutes together that I can't get to soon enough and that doesn't last nearly long enough. Only to have to leave before I'm ready to get back and eat a hurried lunch at my desk, working, getting in some "me" time, some time devoted to maintaining my professional identity. (It's amazing that work has now become my "me" time.)

And while there I will look at her daily log and ask about how long her naps were and how she spent her time. And I will long for that time to have been with me. I will envy them of the time they had with her, seconds, minutes, hours that I will never have.

So what's to be done? What recourse do we have in the face of time, ever coming, ever going, never enough? I once heard a parable about a man who held his hands under a stream of grain. He grasped at it, trying in vain to catch the tumbling seeds. Inevitably the last grain tumbled out and he was left grasping at air. When asked to remember the grain, to remember the feel of it as it passed through his hands, he had nothing to say. He had been too busy trying to grab it to stop and take notice of its feel, of the gentle, cool caress as it flowed over his fingers.

Rather than spend my time longing for more, lamenting the hours that pass in a blur, I resolve to stop fighting the flow and focus instead on how it feels as it passes through my fingers.

So that I may have a memory of how this time, however fleeting, felt as it flowed by, taking so much along with it.