In a child's world, time in a bottle

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

Adam is learning to tell time in a place where time does not exist. The irony is lost on him. He is 3, a number as meaningless as 2 o'clock or 6 o'clock, day or night, last year or next year.

These things make no difference here.

Here is his house, warm and safe, the world locked out. "Bear Snores On" playing over and over on the TV, the family room full of toys, Charlotte, his sister, in her jumpy seat, "da-da-da"-ing and laughing.

For me, for Adam, for Charlotte, for now, there is no world beyond this.

Adam sits next to me, a book between us, its cover a clock with moveable hands, a new book, but old-fashioned, too, with its cheery round face and its big and little hands.

I tell him that the little hand may be small but it has a big, important job because it's the little hand that always tells what hour it is. Then I move the little hand with his little hand from 1 to 2 to 3 to 4, all around the clock.

We look at the real clock, which hangs on the wall above the kitchen sink, and I say, "Can you see where the little hand is pointing right now?" And he says, "At the 5," and I say, "That's right! It's a little past 5 o'clock." And then I explain that when the little hand moves to the 7 and the big hand is on 12, it will be 7 o'clock, and "Mommy will be home."

Adam nods. But I know he doesn't understand about time because he says things like, "Yesterday, when you come over, Mimi, can we go to the Walk-a-walk mall?" And, "In 14 days when I'm big ..." But he is earnest, plus he loves numbers and counting and his new clock book.

We take a break from telling time and watch TV for a while because it's the good part where Bear wakes up. "BEAR GNARLS and he SNARLS. BEAR ROARS and he RUMBLES! BEAR JUMPS and he STOMPS. BEAR GROWLS and he GRUMBLES!" And we gnarl and snarl and roar and rumble.

And in her jumpy seat, Charlotte laughs.

When Bear is asleep again, Adam and I throw balls -yellow, green, pink, and blue plastic ones into a bucket.

"How about you throw all the pink and blue balls and I throw all the yellow and green ones?" he says.

And so we do.

Then we play catch. Then we juggle. Then Adam sits at the table and eats spaghetti, while I feed Charlotte cereal and sweet potatoes.

Outside, the world spins so fast that you never catch up. Lists. Have-tos. Schedules.

Here, I wait for the little hand on the real clock to reach 6 so I can point this out to Adam. I wait for Bear to growl again so that we can snarl and roar. I wait for Charlotte to finish her cereal and sweet potatoes so that I can give her a bath and change her for bed.

Six o'clock is when I used to watch the evening news. I think about this, all the bad in the world, all the good in here.

I put them in the tub and they play until the water gets cold, Adam with his fish and his boats, Charlotte with just the water, newly discovered, splashing away.

They are dressed for bed by 6:30, in time for the world news - the bad news of the day confined not just to local news, but culled from all over the globe.

We don't watch this news, though. Not ever. We play ball. We color. We read books. And we gaze at "Bear Snores On" for the zillionth time.

The heat clicks on and, in the lamp light, we sit on the floor and feel the warm air rising and night settling in. A roof over our heads. Charlotte drinking her bottle. Day ending, night beginning and of us, each of us, leaning in toward one another.

Childhood is what exists in here within these walls, within this space. Adam and Charlotte inhabit this world. I just visit. My daughter returns and I go home.

But when I'm there with them, I know what’s important. I open my arms to my grandchildren and turn my back on the world.