So, Where Does the Time Go?

time- noun. the indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present and future regarded as a whole.

This Friday, our granddaughter, Lexi Grace, turned 10 months old.  The traditional monthly picture was posted on Facebook by her daddy, Scott.  The same props as month 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9 surrounded Lexi– her crib, a picture frame declaring the milestone month and her first Teddy Bear– a giant sized fluffy pink Gund given to her by Great Aunt Maryanne who said it was what her late Great Uncle Scott would have picked out.  The only difference in this photo is that the number of the month in the picture frame and Lexi are bigger.  Each month reveals her growing older and brighter, with more hair and naturally, better posture.  The Teddy Bear used to seem massive; now it’s getting smaller, like the lovely, distant memory of the day of her birth.  There is also one other thing that doesn’t seem to change– the color of Lexi’s eyes, still so mesmerizingly blue, as constant as the sky and the essence of time.

So, where does the time go?  Everyone asks, rhetorically.  I used to think, when I was a child and teenager, that time moved slowly, at a snail’s pace.  Ten months felt like an eternity.  Once I had my children, though, the snail became like butterflies, ephemeral and swift, barely present long enough to enjoy its beauty before it fluttered away.  Now, that I’m a grandmother, it feels as though time is the bird that sits outside my window on my Japanese maple tree at the dawn of spring daring me to take notice of his presence before he flies abruptly away.  I’m always a little disappointed that his appearance was so brief, and then I forget and go on with my day. 

At this point in time I am 57, 11 months and 7 days old.  I have stubborn lines around my eyes and the corners of my mouth that no miracle cream can erase and believe me I have tried them all.  I now smile as much as possible to make my frown lines disappear; although, it seems to be producing more lines, only higher.  I am beginning to see droopy jowls under my jaw and deeper creases at the base of my neck.  Therefore, scarves are an essential part of my wardrobe and I do believe that a middle-aged woman probably devised the growing fashion trend of scarf wearing, bless her heart.  Some signs of aging I can camouflage or cover up, not so the skin on my hands, which is translucent and thin and dotted with stubborn brown age spots.  Still, some people are surprised when I reveal my age; I self-deprecatingly tell them they need their eyes checked.   

My Grandma Fanny used to say that it doesn’t matter how old you are or what you look like on the outside, on the inside you still feel like that 18-year old girl you once were.  I know just what she means now.  That 18-year old girl (me) will be attending (reluctantly) her 40^th high school reunion next week.  That same 18-year old girl drove all the way to her 25^th high school reunion 15 years ago, into the parking lot and out of the parking lot without going in.  Believe me, that 18-year old 42-year-old girl looked a lot better.  Fifteen years of time, as quickly as it goes, leaves a lasting impression on your face and body.  The one benefit to this reunion is that I will be in a room full of people my own age; the only thing separating us will be 40 years of time and how we filled it, although I suspect some people might have filled it with Botox or Restylane, among other things. 

How did I fill 40 years of time?  I filled it with many things I never considered when I was that 18-year old high school graduate, black long hair parted down the middle, looking out of naïve brown eyes, freckled smooth complexion, standing wobbly on trendy 5 inch wedged sandals in 1973.  I know I had dreams of being a famous actress, or singer, or novelist or artist.  I know the four years of college ahead seemed like it would take forever to finish.  I can't even recall those four years now, or how they prepared me for life.  One of the alumni asked for a short bio from us, with a deadline of yesterday to turn it in.  I never even attempted to write one; ironically even though I love to write, bios of myself are the most challenging narratives to capture. 

Honestly, I wouldn’t know what to put in a bio about me that would encapsulate who I am and what I’ve done in the time between high school and now.  I measure my life by the state and accomplishments of my children, mostly.  They are the center of my world, even though at times they frustrate me beyond measure.  Now, being a grandmother, the most important thing about the time I have is spending it with Lexi.  Just a simple day watching her play with her toys, crawling on the floor with her cute little waddling tush, exploring and discovering the space she’s in while she's squealing sounds in her own language is my favorite way of filling time.  That is how I spent my day yesterday– babysitting for my granddaughter, enjoying every second of it, even when she was hysterical from being overtired and teething. 

At 10 months old, Lexi is pulling herself up on everything and letting go for longer amounts of time, just about to walk or run.  Part of me wants her to take those first few steps and the other part wants to hold her back.  The latter part just wants more of those moments that you wish you could put in a bottle so you could open it up anytime to feel your granddaughter sleeping (finally) upon your chest breathing in and out.  Those are the moments where I just want time to stand still. 

Me at 18