Keeping Time

I keep time in six minute increments. 7:30--I wake up. 7:36--I get out of the bed. 7:42--I take a shower. You get the idea. My entire day exists in six minute increments, a requirement of my job. When I get stuck in traffic, I immediately assess how many "point ones" I need to make up the time spent sitting in my car.

I have one and only one zone of peace. My chair. It is sage green houndstooth micro-fiber velour. It is indelibly stained with chocolate milk, despite near weekly efforts to scrub it clean. It smells like fabric softner, my perfume, and wet-puppy little boy. Every night, RJ asks me to rock him. Sometimes we rock for 10 minutes. Sometimes for two hours. And not once, not ever, do I look at the clock and think, "Just one more 'point one,' and I'll stop rocking."

My day at work is controlled by a clock--constantly ticking, scolding me when I scoot down the hall to the restroom or (gasp!) when I stop to chat with my friends. My evenings at home are wholly controlled by a toddler, from doorway to pillow.

I used to think that toddler time would be the time that I would monitor and that my workdays would flow like water. I would be a career woman. A "success." Now, the workdays flow like molasses that set in the refrigerator too long, and my evenings in my rocking chair slide by effortlessly.

Tonight, I kept time in my rocking chair. I counted the minutes until Ryan James drifted to sleep and counted the minutes until I felt his legs twitch the tell tale sign of dreams. I kept time and realized that my baby is getting longer. His legs drape over the arms of my chair, and his arms reach all the way around my neck.

My "point ones" with RJ will no doubt grow more and more precious, and despite my best efforts, my "point ones" at work will continue to be stolen, late at night, early in the morning, at the dinner table on my phone. And with luck, a little prayer, and a lot of hope, maybe those "point ones" will be enough.