Thursday 24 November 2011

Tick Tock.

You know that feeling? It's that little glow of gloom that sometimes envelopes you first thing in the morning, at first a little haze which prevents you from removing yourself from the safe haven of the sheets in order to catapult with a vengeance into the new day. It isn't a depression, it is definitely not all-consuming but it's that little nudge of negativity reminding you that today is another day which will be much the same as yesterday. And the day before.

That, my friends, is called routine. It can stabilize you for a short time and give you the safe tick-tock of a running clock but when you're tired of the constant click of the second hand making it's way around the continual face, the minute hand spinning a little too quickly, it can also make you panic. You wonder where your time, your precious moments and, indeed, your life is going.

This has been me for a few weeks. It's been there before but then I make a plan for something in the not-too-distant future and it brings me back to enjoying the thrill of the organisation...until, lo and behold, I actually start to wish time away in order for the event to arrive.

What a pickle!

I have come to the conclusion that I can enjoy the hum-drum of routine and revel in the fact that everything that I think is guaranteed is most certainly not. What I think is habitual is only so for so long... The bathtime ritual of two little girls, always during the witching hour where a bubble bath does not equal blissful tranquility; a fitful mess of soap suds and squealing children should not pierce my senses like fingernails down a chalkboard. If I sit back and watch, kneel down next to that tub and get involved in the bubble-basketball, I can see the things that I shall never be able to flick through and notice in such a delicious manner within a photo album, no matter how pretty the cover is. I will see the little brown birth mark on the skinny ribs of a hyper 5 year old, the fold in a cheeky 16 month olds arms, the tangle of hair down two pale little infant backs. I will see the widening eyes of a toddler as she watches her sister spell out words with the letter magnets and see the pride in the pupils of 5 year old eyes that are learning , learning, learning. I will still have to listen to the yelps of wet smacks as a fight breaks out over the bath boat but I will be there to soothe it away rather than cringe and almost crack. I will remain a witness to the agonising heart-break of me, that spoilsport mama, announcing that it's over: time to get out kids and face the prospect of bedtime. But I will also be the same person who can diffuse the hot-cheeked cries with a soft towel and gentle brush of their hair.

This won't last forever. These moments, the very moments that I wish away at 6pm at night, will not be here in 10 years time when these two trusting, affectionate girls are devoid of the desire to be sponged down and request privacy.

I understand.

For me to cut loose the noose of life passing me by, I have no choice; I have to appreciate as much as I can the small little snippets of existence that make up an entire canvas that will mark my time here as 'my life'.

You know, it really is the small things that make up the rest and it's the routine and rationale of day-to-day clocks ticking that make each 24 hour period another brushstroke on that canvas that adds to the bigger picture until it all makes sense. You may want to erase it and start over sometimes but it's not a possibility and to hell with it anyway; it adds character.

It's amazing what a bit of writing can do for the soul. All of a sudden, I can't find the gloom. I see my reason, my rhyme, my potential. It's in every single one of us, it's just a case of seeing how to make that clock tick to your own tune.