I can remember hearing from people who were older than me that time was the enemy.
That was true for me as a kid, true for all children, as all we want is to be older, and time seemed to move so slowly.
In my 20s, time moved as it should, not too fast, not too slow. It was perfect, so much so that I gave it little thought, something I regret now.
In my 30s I began to notice time fluctuate, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow, seldom in my favor.
I’m a very nostalgic person, although I think that’s lessened over the years, perhaps because I have been forced to live in the present, more so than I ever have before. I suppose this is what happens when you’re forced to stop living for only yourself.
And time really has become the enemy.
I would imagine most parents think their child is growing up too fast, that they’re not taking it all in as much as they should or could. But it’s more than that. There are so many things that I need to do that the things I want to do tend to seem like pipe dreams. And that’s fine, this is what being a parent is all about. But man, it seems like the hours squeeze in on me; dishes multiply, it takes longer to get shoes on, there’s always another doctor’s appointment.
But we’re all adults here so we manage. Feeling like I have too much to do and not enough time is a product of the times we live in. The truly frustrating thing about time is how its drained the joy out of those precious moments I have to do the things I want to do.
Everything becomes a guilty pleasure when you feel guilty about everything.
My precious moments of free time have actually become less precious because they’ve become less pure. The enjoyment of free time, of sitting down to read a book or watch TV, has become infected.
But maybe I only have so much joy. I already get so much of it from my son, more than I ever could have imagined possible, that maybe some kind of price had to be paid. It’s not even close, of course; it’s not like losing the unadulterated joy of doing nothing remotely compares with the amount of joy I get from my son. But maybe it’s not the size of the sacrifice that matters, just that it exists.
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