Thursday, August 13, 2015

Time

I feel like time was a tangible concept before I had children. Ten minutes was ten minutes. I knew what I could get done in ten minutes and that was that. I knew how long a year was, how long a month was, how long an hour was.

Now, time feels fluid and fake.

Time seems like money to me. Our American currency, which is backed by so many trillions of dollars in debt, is NOTHING. Someone made it up. Most of our money doesn’t even exist in a printed form, it’s just “in the bank.”

Time feels made up to me now too.

I don’t know who said it, but someone said “The days are long but the years are short.” Very true. Sometimes just the space between 11am and Ryan getting home for lunch at 12 stretches on for hours. There are diapers and hungry cries and whining and runny noses and diapers and owies and diapers. Then there are other times that he walks through the door and I don’t have lunch ready because it was 11 a few minutes ago.

I remember the moment our son was born as clearly as I would if it had happened yesterday. I remember certain other aspects of his babyhood just as well. But then things that happened a few months ago are a foggy, hazy blur and feel like they happened a lifetime ago.

I am forever sending someone a text message or e-mail and then seeing from the last timestamp that I haven’t spoken to them in weeks, even months. Then I turn around and apologize to someone for not talking to them for so long and find out I just talked to them a few days ago.

Time is for the young.

Time is like magic and fairy tales and folklore. You can only believe in it for a short time. After that, it’s just not real to you.

I sometimes think this has to be a temporary thing. It’s just because my children are babies and I’m sleep deprived and busy. It’ll change once they’re six or 12 or 17. Then I talk to women who laugh and tell me, “Oh, honey. It only gets worse!”

As a kid, I knew how many days there were until Christmas or my birthday. Now I have to subtract the year I was born from this year to figure out how old I am. When did that happen? That’s not me, that’s my mom’s thing! She’s the one who gets confused about her own age, not me!

You know that Alan Jackson song, where he says “Remember when 30 seemed so old? Now, looking back, it was just a stepping stone to where we are and where we’ve been…”

I’m in this weird place where I’m just about to step onto that stone. It’s at an incline so I can see a little of what lies ahead now, but not all of it. And once upon a time I couldn’t even see 30 because that was literally decades away from me, and now it’s just within my reach. And I’m fine with that. I’ve always found aging to be a beautiful thing so I’m not at all concerned about turning 30, 40, 50, 60, even 70 someday. I love the idea of being filled with wrinkles and stories and wisdom.

But I do worry a little about when that time will come. I like to think it’ll get here nice and slowly, like my first pregnancy. But deep down I know that I’m going to run around for a few months and then be 30, and then run around for a year or two and be 40. And then a year or two after that I’ll be white-haired and small and I’ll have reached the end of my days. And I like to hope I’ll have a lot of great wisdom to pass on, that I’ll be proud of the way I spent all of this/this very small amount of time I’ve had here. But I guess I’ll just have to see how it goes. 

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