Tonight, we will be turning our clocks back.
It is daylight savings time.
And, the time as come for you to learn a few things about me that you don’t already know:
1) I hate cilantro and parsley. The presence of either of these two green garnishes will ruin a meal for me.
2) I am terribly afraid of space. And the planets. And the sky. And I can’t write anymore about it because I’m getting anxiety.
3) I get very confused by time. I have a very hard time trying to grasp time. All things time-related tend to baffle me. Daylight Savings makes my head hurt. Also, yay DST, but seriously, do babies get the memo about being able to sleep an extra hour? I think not. However, I will get back to you on this one.
 
in approximately 5 hours time
(well, actually, it’s a little less than that, but, you see, I get confused with all of these time-related-calculations, so I’m just going to approximate before my brain starts to throb)
my baby will turn 29 weeks.
Wow,
you say.
You’re so exact. How can you keep track of how many weeks she is?
I can’t.
Tonight, as we were giving her a soapy bubble bath,
I tried, desperately, to figure out how old she would be at 2:22 am tomorrow morning,
and I failed.
I had to resort to the calendar on my computer, and count each week,
week by week,
from April 18 until today.
I told you, I’m bad with time.
Moreover, I am even more befuddled now that I’ve just heard that Daylight Savings begins at 2am. Does my baby turn 29 weeks at 2:22 or 1:22?
AHHHHH, brain.is.disintegrating.
And, also, 29 weeks? Come on.
Come.On.
How is that possible?
I’m not trying to be cute here when I ask, “Isn’t time really, truly speeding up?”
How has it been 29 weeks,
203 days,
(oh, I obv used my calculator for that one)
since our baby story began?
Time is strange.
Using my magical powers
and my IPhoto,
I dug up photographic evidence of what we were doing on this exact date, last year.
I was growing a human.
That’s what I was doing.

Oh, and that’s how I looked.
On this day last year, I was nearly 4 months pregnant.
I can’t tell you how many weeks because that involves time-calculating skills that I have previously established I do not possess.
Kapish?
It’s weird that so much has changed in the time since that picture has taken.
It’s weird that so much hasn’t.
For instance, I was just rummaging through my pantry, searching for the perfect late-night snack, and came across an open box of Handi-snacks. Not the best kind with the breadsticks; the pretzel kind. They were a pregnancy craving. They’re still residing in my cupboard. A little gross, yes, but sentimental, nonetheless.
The handi-snacks haven’t changed.
The fact that 9pm now constitutes a “late-night” meal has.
We dined on cheeseburgers tonight at 5:30 pm. Dinner. At 5:30 pm.
Time. It’s mind-boggling.
When I was in elementary school and went to summer camp, I became enamored with my Junior Counselor, Beth.
I idolized her.
She had blue hair and her backpack was covered in patches and she listened to punk music.
She told me that she was going to a punk rock show down on South Street, for a band called Black Train Jack.
I begged my parents to let me go with her.
I was 8.
They said no.
By the way, thank you, mom and dad. No. Seriously. Thank you.
I pleaded.
I told them that if they let me go, I’d stop sucking my thumb.
No. I am not kidding. No. I will not elaborate.
They said fine, but they would take me themselves.
I don’t remember much about the night.
I longed to dye my hair blue like Beth’s, but my parents would not allow it.
Once again, thank you. I did not appreciate you and your boundaries at the time, but now I do. Oh, how I do. Thank you!!
They did, however, take me into Zipperhead, a crazy shop that sold body piercing apparati and leathers and all other items that were grossly inappropriate for a third grader.
They would not let me get the permanent hair dye, but did allow me to get the wash-out spray.
As far as parents go, mine were pretty awesome.
Still are. You hear that? I love you!!!
ANYHOO,
the reason I am telling you this story is not because I’ve lapsed into a Daylight Saving’s bout of incoherence.
It’s because
a) that experience feels like yesterday. I remember everything about that night and the image of it is as clear as day in my mind. How is it possible that it is nearly 2 decades ago?
b) In the time that has passed since that night, I have become a parent myself. I would never let my daughter go to a concert, on South Street, alone with a blue haired teenager. At least not until she’s out of elementary school. In the 18 years since that show, I have grown up. I get it now.
c) The reason why I was so eager to see Black Train Jack perform at the TLA that night? My absolute favorite song of the third grade moment was called,
you guessed it,
Time.
I’d quote the song for you, but it’s so inappropriate, and not at all a tune I’d ever choose to listen to today.
But, it’s about time nonetheless.
It is hard to write about time without sounding trite or speaking in cliches;
It’s hard to write about time without feeling sentimental or nostalgic;
It’s hard to write about time without my getting confused and frustrated, and needing to hide my head in my hands, which makes it very hard for me to type.
I guess that ultimately, all that I want to say is, it’s normal for us, as humans, to want to look forward to the next best thing. When you are a woman and longing to get pregnant and to start a family, it can’t happen soon enough.
When you’re pregnant, you can’t wait to get past the first trimester so that you can feel human again.
When you’re huge and tired and achy, you’re so anxious to give birth and to meet your baby.
Trust me. I’ve been there. I’ve been all of those places.
But, if the past 29 weeks have taught me one things,
and believe me, they’ve taught me many,
it’s that wishing away time is not only futile, it’s a mistake.
Time is time,
and no matter what we do or think or say or want,
it will continue to pass.
The baby will come and then she will learn to focus her eyes and then she will begin to hold her head up and then she will start to smile and laugh and talk
and sit up
and crawl
and ask you to take her to a Punk Rock Show on South Street with dyed blue hair and a ripped up leather jacket.
It will happen.
So don’t wish the baby steps away.
They’re the best part.
The baby can’t sit on her own without the weeks of wobbling in your arms.
And trust me, as soon as she can sit on her own, and does not need you to hold her up anymore,
you’ll feel elated,
and proud,
and maybe just a tiny bit lighter, without the weight of her on your arms.
And maybe, just a tiny bit sad.
Because it goes by so quickly.
29 weeks might as well be 29 seconds,
as they pass by in an instant,
before you can blink your eyes
or finish a box of Handi-Snacks.
Trust me,
I know I’m no expert,
but, if I can give you one piece of advice, it is this:
Tonight is Daylight Saving’s Time.
It’s one day, once a year, that Time gives us all a most precious gift; it gives itself back.
It allows us to take 60 of those fleeting minutes,
all of those missed, lost moments,
and re-live them,
or live them better
than we did the first time.
It lets us rewind one hour,
so that we can enjoy one more hour of sleep
or hugs
or bad punk music
or cheeseburgers
or whatever you are lucky enough to do or feel.
I hope that you have a wonderful Daylight Saving’s.
I may not be able to figure out how time works,
and I may not want to think about it too much, at the risk of losing the few marbles I have left,
but I’ll tell you one thing:
I plan to use my hour well.
Because in a world where time, and life go by more quickly than any of us would like,
Daylight Savings can be the ultimate
Saving grace.