Watching the Clock

Sunday morning I woke bored.
I’m not sure that’s a thing, waking up bored…must have been a stellar lack of dreamscape Saturday night, but once my eyeglasses were upon my face, I fell back on the bed, bored.
What did I do? I watched the clock. I have one of those analog things, the kids nowadays don’t recognize as timepieces. It has hands, even, I mean, how old school can I be?
And lo and behold, I watched time go by. For three minutes, I watched clock hands creep along incrementally until I’d given them up. Gone forever, those three minutes.
It made me think. When I’m conscious of time, it goes slowly. When I’m fractured, trying to get eight things done at once, I never have enough of the fluffy stuff, time.
It’s kind of like when Bubs was a baby. Watching him was blissful, of course, unless I was exhausted and desperately in need of dark to come early so little man could go to his crib, leaving me to fall onto my own bed for the tiny two hours he gave me to recover between feedings/diapers/gas/lonely-so-hold-me moments. But these eleven years zipped by so quickly ┬áthat I must not have been watching…but I feel like I was watching…and now mostly, I feel cheated. And depressed. And sad. And tired.
The Moral: Don’t wake up Bored.
So have better Dreams.
And watch every single precious second of this blindingly swift life. Live within each one. And rue its passing while relishing the memory within.
And maybe scrapbook a lot. So that when you’re old and can’t remember the things you should remember but somehow lost hold upon, you’ll at least have a visual diary with Cricut cutouts and fancy borders to remind you what you’ve seen.
Now, I’m going back to sleep…even though it’s Monday.