Time

When I wasn't on a horse, I spent my teenage years on my twin daybed, gazing through white lace curtains, clutching my flowered blanket and reading books. Time was a long painful thing; I craved events to punctuate the days.

I spend my days now ensuring that my children have uninterrupted time to play and dream and sleep. There are so many small events - so much to do - and I miss those stretches of time I had when I was young.

If only I had five hours. I could finish that short story. If only I had a day to myself. Creativity would pour in, and I'd have something real to write about. I'd tear myself away from HGTV episodes and get down to important work. Really I would.

And I think at 4:00 AM, if only Baby Girl would sleep, then I could sleep. I promise myself the next time she naps, I'll nap. But then The Kid wakes up, and I'd rather be with him than catch up on sleep. In the evening, when Baby Girl conks out at 6:00 PM, I'd rather tuck in The Kid, tell him the exact same three stories we both know by heart, than go to bed.

There's this strange sense of two different times. I look at my three year old, and time has gone by so quickly, and before I know it, he'll be fifteen and sleeping in until noon and would rather take a rusty fork to his eye than give his mom a hug. I look at my two week old, and time passes so slowly, feeding, burping, changing, walking, rocking her. Like her brother, she is happiest when she is being held, so we only put her down to sleep and shower.

And yeah, duh, we all know raising kids goes by in the blink of an eye, and it's the most important work we can do. But I also know that a mother's emotions during the raising of said kids aren't as simple. I know, I KNOW, that I better pay attention now, while they're young, because soon I will crave the affection I'm allowed to give them. At the same exact time, there is a part of me who is detached from motherhood, who wants to work and write and exist independently of the people who need me the most.