I don’t wear a watch but I have started to feel clock hands in my belly. The small digital radio next door, the red wall clock in the kitchen and my almost dying iphone, stuffed under my pillow. The numbers they bear have filled my eyeballs these past three months.
I am communicating in 24 hour cycles because the edges of day and night have become sardined together. Feeding is a continual event; I’m on the fast train to food. With the frequent pit stops full of challenging little body aromas and happy kicking feet.
And so I add to this, having created my own systems for noting the passing of time. When to eat, when to play, when to sleep – unfathomable algorithms, keys that only make sense at 0236 am. And never at all when you re-read them.
I didn’t know I would become a routine bearer, someone else’s timekeeper, an overall logistics maker. This army general persona I had not prepared myself for. ‘Oh no, you shouldn’t clock watch – go by your baby’s rhythm’.
And so it takes time to know what this is, and when you sense it, it drifts into something else. Because I have never known my own. Which I like. It doesn’t matter anyway because when my new son smiles it heats my heart deep. No time stamp on that.