It's About Time

I like to be on time. I've always liked to be on time. I used to pride myself on being prompt. In fact, I was always early.

This, of course, changed once I had a child.

Gone are the days of grabbing my keys and running out the door with nary a care in the world except my own being. Now it's hats, coats, bags and belongings of that sort for multiple beings. Tracking down these various items invariably leads to time slipping away, and *gasp*, being LATE. Granted, looking back, I did seem to be a "hurry up and wait" kind of person. Arriving 10 minutes early to classes just for the sake of having that safety bubble, being able to grab a seat in the back and watch others arrive, not wanting those others to get there before me and look at my butt as I took a late-comers seat in the front. Having a cushion of time to get my refreshments, go to the bathroom, check my e-mail or just stare into space for 5 minutes while not "on-the-clock" at work used to seem so important.

That luxury is gone. These things are now getting done "on-the-clock," and that's just the way it has to be. We now sometimes arrive for appointments, work and social gatherings LATE, and that's just the way it has to be.

Now each minute of the morning at home is preciously allotted to the needs of someone else before my own. I hurriedly get showered and dressed before everyone else because if I fall behind schedule, then the morning is shot, and *gasp*, I'm LATE. Of course, I'm not in this alone. My husband often sacrifices breakfast in order make sure our child is dressed and gets her milk in the morning or ends up wearing a wrinkled shirt because he didn't have time to check it as he was chasing the little one through the kitchen to make sure she doesn't head for the basement stairs. If I look at the clock and it's 6:15 instead of 6:10 when I'm feeding the dog, then I know for certain that I'm going to be LATE for work because now the whole morning is off schedule and we're going to be leaving the house at 7:10 instead of 7:05, and crap! it's recycling day and we didn't put ours out last week and it has to go out today and where is the lunch container, oh- never mind we don't have time to make lunch, get Josie's coat we have to go, wait- you're wearing white socks with black shoes - go change, hurry up, where are Josie's mittens, did the dog get let out? stop staring at the cat - we have to go, we're LATE!

Yes, I COULD get up 10 minutes earlier. But I refuse. I already get up at 5:30 and just. can't. get. up. earlier.

I admit to having a mild panic attack at the thought of adding another being and another being's belongings to this chaotic mix. I know at first it will be hairy, but just as everything worked out the first time, it undoubtedly will again. We fall into a comfortable routine, disrupt the routine with a life changing event, struggle, adjust and fall into a different comfortable routine, only to do it all over again.

I realized this morning when I got to work (only 3 minutes LATE, mind you) that not only am I obsessed with watching the clock, but I'm now obsessed with watching the calendar, as well. I turned on my computer, pulled up my Lotus Notes, checked my calendar (why, I'm not sure as I never have much going on!) for today's schedule, opened my desk calendar to March, tore off yesterday's Dilbert cartoon on my daily calendar, and made sure the Avon calendar on my cube wall was, in fact, turned to March. Of course, it was.

Why the calendar obsession? Pregnancy. We count down time before baby arrives while counting up how many weeks along we are. 18 weeks today, by the way. Baby is the length of a large sweet potato. We count and count until we reach that magical 40 weeks - well usually, unless baby decides to come out at 36 weeks and 3 days, or as is the case for some of us, we hit 40 weeks and just keep right on going. But it's all about time. Because that's what we were given when we were born. Minutes in an hour, days in a week, years in a lifetime to fill with loved ones, hobbies, friends, and in my case, calendars.

Perhaps my preoccupation with time is an unhealthy obsession that leads to premature gray in my hair or ulcers in my stomach, but it's my obsession to have and I know I can't give it up.

I don't have time.