The Time Traveller’s Father

Anyone who’s a fan of Star Trek: The Next Generation knows that when Guinan makes an appearance, the timeline of the universe is about to do the truffle shuffle. (For those who don’t understand the reference, this is the feeling you get when Bob Saget walks on stage.)

As much as I like Star Trek, I never would’ve believed that altering time was possible. Fatherhood, it seems, is stranger than fiction; my son is a walking time warp.

I suppose I should’ve known something was wrong when Ian was first born, and time lost all meaning. My life was no longer measured in minutes and hours, but in diapers and feedings, peppered with work and sleep. Though, to be fair, Kelly had more diapers, less sleep, and played the starring role in all the feedings.

Time seemed to…stretch, to drag. I once visited Ireland, and rented a stick-shift. I had never driven in another country, on the opposite side of the road, and I hadn’t touched a manual since high school. By, I suspect, some sort of mental self-defense mechanism, I don’t remember the details of those first 30 minutes. Like a mystic on a bed of nails, or a collage of images that resolve into a picture of Andy Warhol, I’m instead left with the overall impact of that experience.

For the first year, Ian’s time bubble was involuntary. I mean, it’s not as though he could stop being hungry; and though I remember thinking that some diapers seemed to be unnesessarily full, I really don’t think Ian had that much control over his digestive processes.

And then he started walking.

This past spring, we took Ian to a state park. The third state park of the weekend, to be precise. As much as we had enjoyed the weekend, Kelly and I were anxious to get home; and Ian’s diaper – again with the diapers – needed to be changed. In other words, we were in a big, smelly hurry.

The path to the parking lot was long, and Ian had just entered the stage when he wanted to walk by himself. The moment his shoes touched the pavement, I swear I heard Bob Saget giggling from behind a tree.

Ian walked a foot, and stopped to look at a tree. Another foot, another stop to watch the stream. A step, a bird. Two feet, stick. Rock, leaf, butterfly, butterfly, butterfly, leaf, tree, airplane, stick. Three hours later, I could almost see the car.

Sometimes we’re genuinely in a rush, and these little time bubbles can be a little very frustrating. I mean, sometimes Ian will just stop for no particular reason. No tree, no squirrel, no crack in the wall. He’ll just stop for a while, and then move on. I’ll look at my watch, and 5 minutes will have passed.

Of course, you see where I’m going with this. It’s a lesson everyone knows, and we’re all surprised when we have to learn it again. Ian’s good with the details. He doesn’t care about the bigger picture, the forest, or the grand scheme of things. He couldn’t care less about Andy Warhol. He just wants you to notice the shiny, silver speck moving through the sky.

So maybe I’m the one traveling through time. Maybe Ian’s not so much taking his time, as I’m stealing it.

Here’s to you, son. Take all the time you need.