Hands of time.
I came home for Christmas. Technically it isn’t home though. My parents moved out of where I grew-up about five years ago to begin their retirement. Their new residence is 30 minutes away from the overcrowded, suburban city where I grew up til leaving for college and never looked back. In the beginning, the metaphorical separation hurt my heart. My Mother even made me take all of the trinkets, stuffed animals and yearbooks; there would no longer be a bedroom to call my own.
But as each year passes with countless visits and holidays celebrated in the cozy, professionally decorated abode, it no longer feels quite as threatening to my coveted childhood memories.
Every single time I return to the stomping grounds of my past, without fail I visit with a friend. No matter what, I make the time and the intention known that I’d like to see that particular person, taking turns among about ½ dozen lifelong friends each trip. And every time it is another reminder what a different script I lead than the majority of my peers. Today, for example, the small-stature partner-in-crime from our Catholic, private high school heydays stopped over with her 15-month-old son. Our most recent encounter was the Thanksgiving before last, making her son a mere 2 months old at the time.
She is that friend who can genuinely be placed in the we-don’t-have-to-talk-regularly-but-pick-up-right-where-we-left-off category. While I was mesmerized by the toddler’s pale, chubby, soft skin…and instinctively situating myself between him and every single sharp edge within reach of his newly discovered ability to waddle [the thought of a tiny, frail skull crashing down on a coffee table scares the hell out of me], my sweet spoken friend poignantly tells me while sitting Indian-style on the hardwood floor, about 20 minutes into our banter, “So, I’m pregnant.”
The first thoughts that run through my veins are joy. Untainted, blissful joy. Since we don’t talk consistently, I don’t know the ins and outs of her marriage. But from what I can tell, theirs seems to be solid. Come to think of it…I honestly don’t know behind-the-scene’s scoop of my regularly scheduled married comrades, either. When we’re single and co-navigating relationships, detailed information-sharing knows no bounds. But apparently once you are legally bound, those kind of inner circle secrets dwindle.
I digress. So I’m super thrilled to learn about this life-changing news. We eventually move onto other conversational subjects, after covering the basics [how far along, when is the due date, how did hubby take the news, and the like]. As I witnessed her caring for the cutie pie offspring smiling and cackeling, while another cutie pie nugget quietly grows inside her belly, I couldn’t help but think, “She’s lapping me.” Not in a negative sense, per se, but a factual observation.
That’s what happens. First they get hitched, then they get pregnant, then they get pregnant - again.
Mr. Big decided to take a break in travel and didn’t make the 450 mile trek back North for this annual holiday, so his colleague graciously extended a dinner invitation into their home for the festive feast. Big randomly texted me about an hour into his arrival something so sweet and equally surreal, I literally stared at it for a few minutes, digesting the unexpected dessert.
“He has an adorable baby girl. This Christmas makes me think of what ours will be like with our family one day.”
Enter: Our future.
For the first time ever, it finally feels like Big is there. We’re (both) currently at an intangible place of witnessing the workings of others around us building their futures together. And our sights are set to press Play.
The last 48-hours have been spent non-stop with family members and their little ones in my parents’ downsized house. And while I’m typically not claustrophobic - I really needed to breakaway for a bit and escape into a chic lit book. Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin is my homework, if you will, to help wrap my wordsmith mind around fiction…with the intention of composing one myself someday. My imagination was so far removed from reality, a good 2/3 of the way through, when I stopped to notice my Mother standing in front of a Grandfather wall clock in the foyer. She took an old fashion-looking key, inserted it into the face, and turned and turned and turned it.
“Mom, I didn’t know you literally had to wind the clock for it to work.”
She explained how it must be manually cranked, how the chimes are turned off so all of the relatives can sleep through the night and not be disturbed, and then noted that for some reason, “the clock is fast.” So she simply took her finger, placed it on the minute hand, and moved it backwards to where it should be.
I sat there with my feet up on the couch and book clenched to my chest, thinking, “If only life were that easy.” Move the proverbial Clock of Life backward, or forward, as you see fit.
I’ve come to a more peaceful place as far as my own clock goes. Sure there are times where I can taste a hint of envy on my palate from those that lap me. Or worry that my children will be much younger than their cousins. Or that my sister, 12-years my senior, will not wear a bridesmaid dress in her mid-forties. Or that my Dad who recently had a health scare and for the first time has shown significant visible signs of aging on his face, may not be able to keep up with the grandchildren I provide while he is well into his seventies.
But ultimately, although my tick tock may be beating at a different, slower pace than I dreamt about while growing up back on Four Oaks Lane, I’m comforted to know that the saying really is true: [at least] Time flies when you’re having fun.
