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What I felt more than anything as I was riding my bike home that day was I have failed my 6- and 3-year-olds. I have put them in harm’s way. I’m a bad dad. I’m in a position to be laid off because I’m not a serious person. I dabbled in writing rather than fully committing to my software engineering career.
I’ve been told I have it easy, being a single mom. Even that I’m not a real mom for getting this freedom.
When I think of the sidewalk full of blood and the broken bones and frightened faces in Boston, I now also think of one scared little girl who is absorbing too much of the world. A little girl who still lets me hold her in my arms and tell her that she will be okay.
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Oh, time, time, time… you tricky rascal. How is it that getting from morning to lunch takes forever, yet the birthdays just fly by me? How is it that my kids are so big?
I honestly can’t seem to get a handle on this time thing. Since becoming a mom, people have told me to make time for myself. Out of what, exactly, I don’t know, but I would guess it is like crafting or cooking. If I can get the right supplies or ingredients perhaps then I can whip up a batch of time. Until then, though, I will just keep on pushing, squeezing and cramming so much into my day that it might in fact burst.
Tell us your stories about TIME. The moments where you said “its time”. The ways time flies or crawls or stops. Tell us how TIME shapes you, and send it to us to shape Mamalode.
It’s TIME to tell your story.
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