Living by the clock

I used to live by the clock. I remember the days of littles and how most hours of most days were filled to the brim with activity, starting with strict newborn schedules for naptime, mealtime, tummy time and bedtime. Followed by class time, practice time, lesson time, dinnertime, snack time, reading time, vacation time, summertime. Don’t forget work time, chore time, couple time, social time. Even “veg out” time was scheduled. I can remember plopping down in my chair every night at 10 p.m. to watch an hour of Seinfeld before bed (aka Seinfeld time). Before streaming and before doomscrolling, they played reruns on one of the few channels we got on our TV antenna. (When they dropped it from the rotation several years later, I was bereft … but streaming and doomscrolling to the rescue!)

When I think about it, that was pretty much the only hour of most days not dedicated to someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I fiercely fought for my preferences and needs as a young mom when I needed to … I was not a martyr by any means. But that’s kind of my point. I had to fight for them. From 10-11 p.m., it was all about what I wanted, and it wasn’t costing anybody anything.

The accident, however, blew a hole through time. Much as it blew a hole right through our lives.

We had a concept in my family called “being on Libby time.” That girl never quite got the concept of either the clock or the calendar. I vividly remember picking her up from preschool. Those were the days you drove up in the carpool lane, opened your minivan door and a kindly teacher would help the littles into their car seats and buckle them in. Sometimes a teacher would get a bit too rushed with Libby and try to lift her up and sort of manhandle her in. I would just smile to myself and think, I wonder how that’s gonna work out for you? Sometimes, if I was feeling generous, I’d reassure the teacher, “Don’t worry. We’re not in a rush.” Code words for “Watch out, lady. You don’t know who you’re dealing with here.” My girl was a world-class dawdler with a master’s degree in inefficiency.

I remember one time she decided (and had generously shared her decision with the adults) that she would no longer be called Libby. Her name was Elizabeth, and she required proper address from here on out. She chose the carpool line to explain to both of us this new state of affairs. Tick tock, tick tock. Many, many other mothers in minivans were idling behind us. But the Queen needed to say her piece, and I wasn’t about to stop her.

Most of the time (as her mother is not the most punctual of people either), we would be near the end of the carpool line. I began the practice of pulling into a parking space and letting her chat. Because it worried her when she was trying to show me her important works of art or tell me a particularly riveting story about her snack, and I couldn’t turn around in my seat while driving to look and listen with the rapt attention she required. After 15 minutes of that, she was GOOD TO GO.

How precious were those chats? And I learned something too. Those little diversions of time were never serious derailments. Even when I had to get going to the “next thing,” it was never important enough to miss being on Libby time for a few minutes. So I’m late to the next block of scheduled time in an overly scheduled day and life? What of it? Sue me.

I’ve noticed that when kids are little, they are not always listened to. Even as teenagers, they get stereotyped and their thoughts and feelings dismissed. I remember how she hated being interrupted at the dinner table. She could tell the best (and longest!) stories, and she intended to finish one when she started it! I always felt like it was one thing I could give her that maybe other people weren’t always willing to. I could actively listen while she spoke and ask good questions. I could give her my full presence and attention.

I could give her my time. (And I couldn’t be more grateful today that I did).

It wasn’t always easy to slow to her pace. In fact, it was really hard sometimes, and it rubbed up against my ideas of productivity and accomplishment that the world seems to constantly try to impose on us. But what I learned from her still serves me today because my days are truly not the picture of productivity and “success” that I may have once aspired to. Now my body and mind are doing the hard work of Grief, and we are all required to slow to her pace. Missing them is frankly brutal at times and rebuilding an entire life out of some burned out rubble burns a lot of calories. The little Libby in me needs to be heard and witnessed. She has a lot to show me and a lot to tell me.

So what if I’m late to the next thing? Sue me.

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This week marks year four of this terrible, wonderful journey of learning to live without them. It gets extra tender around here on these days. If you’re wanting a way to remember them and send a little kiss to heaven, maybe slow down with somebody you love especially if they’re a little person. Hear their long and winding story, ask them questions about it and banish the voice asking you whether you shouldn’t get going on to the next thing. Be on Libby time.