Moments lost in time
It’s a new year, and early this year my daughter will turn two. For me 2015 is already being filled with milestones other mums, friends, relatives or even strangers at the supermarket keep reminding me of. “She’ll be talking in full sentences.” “She’ll be potty training as of age two.” Exactly two. Although since she was 17 months old people have been saying “she’s nearly two!” “She’s nearly two, she should be able to name all the colours by now!”
When she was a new baby conversations went along the same sort of patterns. “Is she sleeping though the night? She should be!” “Shouldn’t you be weaning by now? Solids will help her sleep.” As a first time new mum these milestones and the worry that I was doing things too early, too late or not the right way caused more stress than the well meaning advise attempted to alleviate. Her first year seemed filled with pressure: pressure to get her on to the next milestone, pressure that she wasn’t reaching certain stages or skills soon enough, others too fast. When my brain turned to mush from lack of sleep, or when I realised I’d left the house wearing a top covered in baby puke I was repeatedly told: “Don’t worry this stage will be over soon!“, but in the next breath I’d be reminded that the next stage was even worse. “Just wait until she’s walking! Then you’ll need eyes in the back of your head”. “Ooh the tantrums that are ahead of you: enjoy the peace while it lasts!” It seemed like her life was being wished forwards with every well-meaning comment, the way I used to sometimes wish away the week on a Monday the sooner to get to Friday.
But then one night, when she was five months old and I was feeding her to sleep for the 5th time (“You’re making a rod for your own back!“), watching the moon and stroking her soft baby hair I realised something. This wasn’t a stage to wish away, to force her though as fast as possible so we could move on to the next one. This was a precious moment. This closeness in the night, her curled up in my arms so small I could lift her with one hand, this wouldn’t last much longer (and it didn’t, she was soon down to waking only once and briefly most nights). I’ll miss this when it’s gone, I thought, this time will never come again. Just now there are no dishes to do, no baby puke to clean up, no bills to pay, just me holding you, a baby that will grow up in a heartbeat. This is our moment.
We spend our lives rushing from one thing to the next, we rush our children on though their childhood too, wishing away the difficult times, the sleepless baby months, the terrible twos, the sulky teenage years, until suddenly they have moved out and are gone from our lives. And we wonder what happened. All those precious moments lost in our rush to keep tabs on time and milestones.
In 2015 my daughter may learn to count to 10. She may not. She may potty train. She may not. She may throw a hundred tantrums and live up to the “terrible twos” stereotype in full. It really doesn’t matter. She doesn’t live in a cupboard: she is loved, taught about the world around her and exposed to a variety of environments and people. She will work though those milestones whether I worry about them or not. I’m not planning milestones for 2015. Instead I hope 2015 will be made up of moments. Moments where I am mindful of the present and not worried about the future. My daughter might throw the mother of all tantrums in front of the whole playgroup, but still I hope I won’t wish away those terrible twos. An hour later she is likely to be sitting in my lap giggling as I read her a book. The same book. That I’ve read 6 times back to back complete with all the animal noises. But that won’t last either, so I hope I’ll enjoy that giggle while it lasts. Soon she will be reading books by herself.
I work mostly from home on small contracts so that I can be at home with my daughter. This means a lot of getting up at 6am to work before she gets up, replying to work emails on my phone while I push a swing. It’s hectic and I know that soon she will be at school, or reading those books by herself in her bedroom, this won’t last long and I’ll have all that time back, as I keep being told. But that’s the problem, time for what? Is that when I start living again? When I return to a full time job? Will I really have more time then when I have an 8 hour day and possibly a commute? Or could it be that I’m living now, already? I can’t go out at night just yet, but I get to go out during the day, I get to cycle to the seaside while others work (I’ve already done my work while they slept). I’m living my life now, and as far as I know it’s the only life I’ll ever have. This year I will try and live more like my daughter lives, in the present moment, not worrying about tasks not yet completed, about what to make for dinner or about replying instantly to everything in my inbox.
We were sitting on swings recently, my daughter and I, watching the sun set over the sea, hills in the distance, the sky was alight and birds circled over the loch looking for fish. I was replying to a client email on my phone when I looked up and over at my daughter. She wasn’t thinking about where her teddy was, or what she would have for dinner, or whether we’d go swimming tomorrow. She certainly wasn’t worrying about css issues with her website. She was watching the sunset, following the birds as they circled looking for fish. She saw the hills and the changing light. She was living this moment, fully in the present. She is a zen master. We all were, aged “nearly 2”, but somehow we forgot about the present when we started worrying about the future and regretting the past.
When swinging, swing. When jumping in puddles, jump in puddles.
She may as well have told me in a small Yoda voice.
It won’t last, this moment, me writing this, you reading. I think of moments already gone, us sitting watching the sunset over the sea on swings: that will never come again. We wish away our children’s early years only to wonder where they have gone, we do the same with our own lives, always looking to the future — in winter wishing it was summer, wishing a whole 6 months away. I’ll be happy when I get that promotion, when I get the house of my dreams, when I finish this degree, when I have more spare time… when I retire. Life is busy, life can be hard, you might be dog tired, you might be broke, but think about today, wasn’t there any moment that was good? Your car windscreen was frosted over and you were late for work scraping off ice, but wasn’t the morning beautiful? The way the world held its breath, frozen in sugared crystals before the sun thawed it out. Did someone you love give you a hug? Did you see a hedgehog? Did your first coffee of the morning taste oh so good? Did you really taste it? Stop for 30 seconds to savour the dark flavour of it?
In 2015 I resolve to try and be mindful of the present, not to look at what 2015 will bring or cry at what 2014 didn’t bring, but to look at what now has already brought. Mindfulness of the present moment can help us enjoy even some of the difficult times as well as notice the good ones. I learnt that one moonlit night from my 5 month old daughter. I was so tired it hurt. I would have struggled to spell my own name, so deep was the fatigue, but in the moonlight I relaxed. I looked at my needy infant and saw the independent toddler to be that she now is and I held her.
I held on to that moment and stored it up for a future me that I knew would miss holding that soft little bundle. No one lies on their death bed wishing they’d paid the gas bill, they think of their loved ones, wish they’d spent more time with them, wish they could have one more hug, one more kiss, wish they’d savoured those hugs or kisses more at the time when they came.
In 2015, wherever you are, whoever you are with, notice those moments that come, bad and good, live them, be mindful of the present rather than distracted by Facebook and don’t wish another year away before it’s begun. When jumping in puddles, jump in puddles.
Originally published at www.contributoria.com.
