Is That The Time?

Winter has arrived. Cold air which chills my feet and whistles through a sore ear to a rough and delicate throat. To the doctor then, to see if more is needed than just a woollen hat and scarf. The 5 year old, in a black and white mindset typical of his age, is keen to neatly arrange these cooler days. 'It is winter now?' he prompts on November 1st when I turn the calender around, anxious to pigeon hole our seasons into months. I agree and choose not to muddy the water by explaining that - in his lifetime - it is likely to change. Multiple shades of grey in a calendar year - weather knowing neither rhyme nor reason, and adhering to no pattern recognised by us.

But a steady chill for now, with bright skies and a notion to be out and wrapped up warm. Late for the bell today, too busy with hats and scarves and baby fists, desiring not the squeeze through elastic to the gloves beyond. We are nearly always chasing the clock - since the day my son was born. A stickler for punctuality in my previous life, I relinquish control - in the face of two children with their own ideas of time. A universal language, it seems, for parents of the young - 'I say half past and I'll do my best, but know - as I do - that we'll be late.'

Time - increasingly running away. Relax then, and urge my boy to panic not when a minute behind the bell. Better late than never - that's us. Hours and weather, speeding ahead at a rate of knots. Patterns, seasons and control - lost - and who knows when to return... x