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Tick Tock, Clock.

Time is a funny thing. Not ha-ha funny but a strange funny. When you’re a kid, time seems to last forever. Tomorrow takes an eternity to get here and forget about waiting for birthdays and Christmas. They just can’t seem to get here fast enough.

I wonder if that’s because they don’t have much to base time off of. You’re seven years old. So the amount of time you’ve been on this planet isn’t very long, comparitively speaking. Then, when you reach your teenage years, time seems to move faster because you already have over a decade under your belt. That’s a lot longer than a year.

Finally, you reach your twenties and now you have two decades. Years seem to fly by and suddenly it’s Christmas again. Dammit, I’m still paying off the last one!

That’s when I noticed the change in time, but then something weird happened. Everything seemed to stop for me. The years became a blur but seemed to go nowhere at the same time. A strange paradox to experience. Nothing seemed to change except for the calendar and occasionally my living arrangements and my job. Other than that, everything was the status quo. My friends were still my friends. The same TV shows were on that were on last year. The same video games were being pumped out year after year. It seemed stagnant.

Lately though, I’ve noticed the moving of time again. How much things chance in such a short amount of time. I attribute that to being around kids again. Over the past year, I have had the joy and headaches of being step-father to two children who are now literally growing up before my eyes. I can actually notice them getting bigger and developing in front of me. I think back to where I was seven years ago and realize that my step-son wasn’t even alive at that point. It’s a strange sobering thought after 13 years of temporal limbo.

Not that I’m complaining mind you. It’s nice to realize that things are actually liquid rather than written in stone.


Out of the Mouth of Babes

I kid you not, this is the conversation I had with my 5-year-old stepdaughter Mogwai (not her real name, in case you think her mother is a real whack-a-doo) on our way home from kindergarten.

Mog: I had a dream with Jesus in it.

Me: Oh yeah?

Mog: Uh-huh.  And he said for me to come to him.  So I did.

Me: Then what happened?

Mog: It was really you!

Me: <pause> I was Jesus?

Mog: Yeah!  And I hugged you!

Me: Well that’s nice.

Mog: And then you died on the cross.

Me: <pause> That’s…not so nice.

Mog: Because you wanted to be king.

Me: I see.

Mog: And so you died on the cross.

Me: Huh.

I should explain that I have shoulder length brown hair and often sport a short beard, so this isn’t the first time I’ve been compared physically to Jesus.  I’ve had friends jokingly refer to me as such for years and even had a few people drive by and yell it at me as I walk down the street.  It’s not an uncommon occurence to say the least. However, to have a 5-year-old make the connection is a bit disconcerting.  I wasn’t sure what to say to her revelation.

So I just nodded my head in vague interest, as one normally does at the nattering of a child and wandered off onto my own meandering thoughts.  Primarily that, if I am sent here to save the souls of mankind, we are all in big BIG trouble.  I can barely be bothered to take the garbage out on a regular basis, let alone anything of that grandiose level.  As for being virtuous, well…I wouldn’t call myself a bad person, but I am far from a saint.  And that whole martyr thing?  Not my cup of tea, really.

So if push comes to shove and I’m your savior, you may want to invest into some yoga classes so you can learn to kiss your behind goodbye.

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