More Time
Not time, more of it. It’s been scarce since I became a mother. Worst, it is scornful now. If I’m enjoying myself, it runs away. If I’m dreading the moment, it stays longer, it gives itself “more” to me. It allows me to bask in sorrow.
Not consciously, I stumbled on the solution, skepticism. A certain inability to fully enjoy anything. Either because, like most parents I’m constantly overworked and my house is untidy as can be, “Would it kill those little people to clean up after themselves?” or because of a natural numbness that comes with lack of sleep. For quite many years I couldn’t fully enjoy myself, no matter what. An air of disdain was always present, any comment, pleasant ones, would be met with a whiff of sarcasm, “This chicken-parm is the best I ever had.” “Eh.” “Your daughter is so well behaved.” “For a four year old, I guess.”
That phase is long gone. It was instrumental in fulfilling my constant quest for more time though. When I’m having the best of times, most of them with my family, my teenage daughters agree to have a game night, “Like old times, mom,” they say, but now they are worthy adversaries, it’s on. I take a deep breath and divide my focus, I’m a participant, not fully, I hold the incredulity of the skeptics and act as an observant, a voyeur, of their fun. Instead of giving myself completely to the moment, I hold back and commit to memory each laugh, each twinkle in their eyes as they think they are about to win, each grimacing expression when they lose, and all their victory dances. Take that, time. I have memory, photos and videos also help.