Not so long ago, I described time as a silk skirt twirling and swirling and falling in soft drapes but I’ll confess, lately, time feels a lot less romantic.
It hurtles past me, so close it might crush my feet, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust and tyre tracks behind. If time is a racing car, then my kids are the ones watching from the sidelines, waving little coloured flags and shrieking with delight: Go Faster! Faster! Faster!
If only they knew what they were wishing for.
Time feels different now than it did before I had children. Or, in my birthday month, let me put it another way: time feels different now than it did when I was younger.
Then, time moved, but it also existed in plentiful supply too. On the one hand, time couldn’t go fast enough for me, with the bright-eyed wilfulness that it takes to be seven or fifteen or seventeen or even twenty-one. I was impatient for it, always wanting to be at the next chapter of my life before the previous one had even begun. But on the other hand, another part of me always knew that eventually I’d get to where I needed to be. Another part of me trusted, somehow, that everything would unfold when it needed to. Because there was always time.
Then I had a baby and then another and another and suddenly time slowed right down. Life with a newborn baby lasts forever, only you are no longer quite as fearless faced with that sort of frightening, never-ending time. And it is never-ending; the long dark nights that tick, tick, tick and the dryness in your mouth sucked out of you by milk elsewhere.
Yet even in the thick of that milk and those blurry nights, everyone, everyone, tells you that time will go so fast, too fast. That they’ll grow up before we know it. It’s the cliché of parenthood. I used to roll my eyes at these platitudes On Time that friends would offer up while cooing over my days-old babies because in those early days, time was as painful as a sore latch, but now that my very last baby is a moving, climbing, talking toddler now, who needs haircuts more often than me, it is with a strange taste in my mouth that I realise what they mean.
The Days Pass Slowly But The Years Fly By (said every parent, everywhere). I have realised, however, that if you think about this for too long, it can sort of mess with your head. Because if you’re not careful, you’ll end up mourning for some sort of vague future you can’t even predict yet, before you realise you’re still in it. You’re still in time, this time, today’s time, right here, right now. Our hearts thumping, our limbs tangled in bedsheets. What is there to mourn, then, when we have all this dancing upon our fingertips?
I’ve decided, as I look ahead to celebrating my birthday in just a week, that I don’t want to mourn the future because I’m afraid of losing the present. I want to be excited by what’s to come, not worry about all that I might have lost by the time it comes around. I want to look back and remember every moment with the people I am lucky enough to know in my life: the boy whose green tea I accidentally took in a coffee shop one day and then married a couple of months later, the babies we brought into the world. I want to look to today, to now, and tomorrow, and find a way to enjoy every day we have made for ourselves.
Time has to fly by.
My kids have to grow up.
So do I.
And I want them to grow up, because they’re supposed to, because everyday gets better and better as they do, in so many ways. And though it may break my heart to see them move across oceans or travel into space or do whatever it is they want to do that takes them far, far away from me one day, it’ll also make my heart sing to see them soar the skies. I promise them every night that they can do whatever they want to do, be whoever they want to be. I owe them that, and I owe them the promise of this future, guiltlessly, without those maternal heartstrings holding them back.
I want them to be free.
But I also don’t want to be sentimental. I want to live in the moment and find ways to look back at this ice-cream scoop of a special, sweet time of living with under-fives that literally fills my life with laughter, and I want to do this in ways that don’t seem tinged by the sadness of a future which I should, truly, be looking forward to. And I am looking forward to it too - to writing books, to finishing what I started, to growing into another version of me, only one I don’t have to apologise for to anyone anymore, ever again.
So I’m beating time. I’m snatching it, by writing all of this down. The things they say, as they fling their damp arms around me at bedtime, things that catch me by surprise and still me for a second longer than they should or make me laugh when really, I’m supposed to be looking at them with my stern face. I’m saving the things I can’t put into words straight away.
But it’s not all about them either. It’s about me. It’s about me. I’m the one, finding my way.
And you see, this way, this way I win. I’m winning because I hold time in the tip of my fingers as I type, as I remember, as I hold onto the moments that might have only lasted a minute but felt like a lifetime. So long, sucker, I say to time as I hop my toes back as time drives past, racing right in front of my feet. So long.
Because I am the winner. I’m the one that gets to remember.