time

I have these next few hours to myself. At home, a rare occasion. So I can form most of a complete thought, read a book, bathe, do nothing if I choose.

I am remembering time, the utter profusion of time - before breakfast, at work, at home on the weekend, at night. Time with no constraints, without limit. Time of quiet, of raucous joy, of no children, of work-related exhaustion. A time far away, so lost as to be forgotten and strange in its structureless abundance: there is only doing for me there, the petty and urgent concerns of relationship, and food, and income. During my days now I wonder how I had so many opportunities for pursuing whatever the damn hell I wanted, whenever I needed. A time when exhaustion had a beginning and end, was not a way of life. When demands also had limit, did not push me with their living breath and human needs for touch, love, reassurance, precious bonds. When I could talk all morning to whomever I chose, walk as fast and as far as I'd like, in snow and rain and clear sun and know the time of my body in motion, in time.

Having had quite a life before children, with Chris, I feel both grateful for so many selfish years and awed that they existed at all. And the tricky thing is that even though I did appreciate how rare my privilege was then, it has created in me the continued need for private space, for thinking, for the pleasant and earned silences of the near-forty. Not to mention the choice ecstatic experiences of the near-forty, as well.

And now I do succumb to days of self-pity and loss, days of great anticipation for nights without nursing, comforting, nursing the sad and scared. And that's OK, it's how life goes for Mama in the beginning years of spent patience and longing. Maybe that's how it goes for you, too. If so, take my electronic hand and hug me through the ether. The day is already 20 minutes shorter, possessed less of itself than with the return of others, hand in hand, in the tired snow.