On Time (Or, Riley's first day of first grade)

Lately, I've been thinking about Time.* 

I have been thinking about when Riley was a newborn, and how I dreaded the nights- those lonely and seemingly endless nights-because they felt like Time had stopped dead somewhere between dusk and dawn.  I remember how each audible tick of the clock echoed in my ears, making a mockery of my footsteps while I paced the floors with an fussy baby who quite simply refused to sleep. Time was a slippery vixen then.  There never seemed to be enough to meet the needs of single, working motherhood, but then at night - then, there was simply too much. 

I have been wondering if I did this to myself.  Did I force Time's hand?  When Riley started smiling, I couldn't wait to hear her laugh.  When she was crawling, I was anxiously awaiting her first steps.  It seems I was always waiting for the next milestone, for the next big thing.  The first time she lost a tooth, the first time she wrote her own name.  Now, I can't help wondering if I pushed Time too much then, demanding it speed up and race at the pace I was setting,  and the punishment I'm facing now is that it has. 

Time continues to be something of a thief and a bully.  It continues to steal moments from me, continues to elude me, continues to take what's mine.  I feel as if I can't win here, there just is simply never enough time, so I am continually reminding myself to make the moments I do have with my child matter.
 

Make them count. 

   

This past week, the Girl started first grade.  Her preschool and kindergarten experiences were both tied to her daycare, so while they were school, they weren't really "school."  There were no bells or assigned seats, and there were only ten or twelve kids in her class.   Now there are school handbooks and tardy bells and principal's offices.  School now- it's the real deal.  

The night before school started, we washed and brushed her hair, picked out clothes and packed her backpack with the requisite forms and snacks.  She went to bed, nervous and excited and chattering a mile a minute, then finally settling into a restless sleep.

I sat down in the hallway outside her room and cried.

How is it possible that I have an almost-six-year old? Where did the Time go?  Did I use it well, or did I squander this precious, precious commodity.  Have I given her what she needs so she can confidently navigate this next stage of her life?  Will she find the bus to her afterschool program ok?  Will the other kids be nice to her?  Will she make friends? Who will help her figure out how to access her lunch money account?  Will she feel empowered to learn and grow, or will she slip into the timid mode that is her fall-back when she's overwhelmed?  For quite a while, I sat just outside her bedroom, listening to her talk in her sleep, and these questions filled my entire heart with a heavy, heavy weight. 

 For so long, I have felt as if I had to speed up time, had to keep moving, and now that the reality of it's passage was staring me in the face, I could only beg Time to show a little mercy.  Please, please, let me keep my baby little, just for a bit longer.  

The next day dawned bright and sunny, and the Girl dawned bright and sunny, as well.  She ate breakfast, got dressed and allowed me to take a few pictures, and when the Time was right, we headed up the hill.  She was nervous and hung back near me, and when the bell rang, she hung on to me and cried a bit.  I could tell she was overwhelmed by the noise and the sheer mass of kids, and truth be told, I was too.  Still, after a bit of coaxing from her sweet new teacher, she finally went into her classroom and continued on to a fun and successful first day at school.

 And I sat in my jeep outside of work and cried.

I cried the next day after dropping her off, and the following day, too and while I'm certain my co-workers now think I'm an emotional nutjob, I have come out of this week having learned an important lesson.  

In the battle of Amy vs Time, there is only ever going to be one winner.  I will never find enough Time, and even if Time rolled over and surrendered to my wishes to keep my baby little, it still wouldn't be enough for me to take in all the laughter, tears, and tiny little moments that make up the everyday.  There is simply not enough.  There are competing demands, and I'm not going to get what I want here.

What  I can do is this:  spend what time I do have with my first grader fully immersed in the present moment.  Notice the way her eyes light up when she thinks she's outsmarted me, and how her freckles are deepening against her milky, pale skin.  Pay attention to the words she speaks in her husky, smokers-lounge voice and engage completely when she tells me her secrets and dreams.  Be willing to put down the to-do list in order to snuggle with her when she asks and put aside the laundry or dishes to play with her when she wants me to be her playmate.  It's not enough, but it's what I have.  It's all I have. 

I want to be fully and completely engaged in these moments of motherhood, and not spend more of tomorrow's Time wondering where they went.



*I capitalized Time in this post because it feels big, it feels like a main character.  No need to email me and tell me it's incorrect.
**Thanks, Frister, for finding my words so I could repost them again.  You're the bestest.