“I don’t have time for this.” “I wish we had more time.” “There’s not enough time in the day.”
However you want to put it, time binds us with restraints.
We must prioritize our time. We must make the most of our time. We must manage our time.
And most of all, we must value our time.
However, in the midst of writing this post, I have decided “to hell with time”.
I was going to write an uninspiring piece of how I don’t have time for myself, as though any parent of three has a magical equation that keeps the train from derailing from time to time. But instead, I choose to embrace the chaos in which I live in.
When I sit down and begin to assess the use of my time… it begins to morph into a defeating process, like filing taxes:
‘Well, I could write this hour off, I mean, the explosive diaper definitely was unforeseen.’
‘Ah, yes, I do consider picking up all the trash that some stray dog tossed around like confetti throughout our neighborhood, specifically down my driveway, as charitable work.’
‘My gross income is 24 hours, however, after write-offs and charitable work, I am really only bringing home about 2.34 hours. And well, I chose to sleep thru those few hours. Perhaps I should have opened a savings account and banked those hours for something we really needed or in case of a time of emergency.’
And that, my friends, is not worth my time.
I run from fire to fire… doctoring up an unscheduled scratch here with a kiss and ineffectively cleaning marker off the wall, over there, with a baby wipe…
…all, just in time to pull together a Chef Ramsey style dinner (you know, the meal that is brought up for service, where he screams obscenities and kicks the whole team out of the kitchen for their ‘ridiculous’ inadequacies).
That meal will be eaten by 3 of the 5 attending dinner that night.
One is still ‘on the tit’,
the other, will rather have Goldfish Crackers with a side of pickles and watermelon.
My son will pick out whatever he considers to be ‘a little under-cooked, mum’ and
my husband will be arriving late and hungry and would eat ‘3 week old left-overs’ with a dash of penicillin, if he had to.
But you see, at the end of the day, it is not what I did with my time… it is who I did it for.
And I’ve come to realize, no matter how I justify how time got away from me,
it isn’t time that we must value,
it’s the people we share it with.