We measure time in seconds and minutes, hours and days, weeks and months, years and decades. Sometimes seconds drag. Sometimes days and weeks fly by.
I see patients with chronic conditions, so my relationships with them are typically measured in chunks of three to six months. It’s often a surprise to me to see a certain name on my patient list – is there a problem? Why is she back so soon? Then I check the chart – there’s nothing wrong, just a routine six month evaluation. Where has the time gone?
In my home life, too, I frequently feel like I’ve been in autopilot mode: Get up. Make lunches. Go to work. Get the laundry done. Then, like a submarine which has been submerged for too long, I have a hard time adjusting to my surroundings when I finally surface. How did Eldest get so tall? When did Youngest grow those shoulders? Is that a mustache? Two mustaches?
If I were a stay-at-home mom, would I see these changes while they were occurring? Or does every mother experience the sudden realization that her children have been quietly, efficiently, growing up? Perhaps the daily changes are so gradual that we can’t see them. Like the movement of the hour hand on the last analogue clock in the house, after a certain amount of time has passed the change becomes obvious to even the most casual observer.
I want to stop time. No, I want to be more aware of time. Any ideas how to make this happen?