E D I T O R ' S_N O T E

Look for excerpts from Anne Lamott's new book, "Traveling Mercies," on Fridays; Word by Word, Lamott's biweekly Thursday column, will return March 4.

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T A B L E_T A L K

Are there people who just shouldn't have kids? Discuss the world's worst potential parents in the Mothers area of TableTalk

-----Mother Time
We have lots of some kinds of time, little of others -- which is why people who live outside this zone, including many politicians, don't understand our lives.

BY JENNIFER BINGHAM HULL | Time used to be my ally, something I understood so well that I neverthought about how it worked. I checked off tasks in my Franklin Planner. My life unfolded in neat blocks definedby where I lived, who I dated, what jobs I had. There were the schoolyears; the years spent living in Los Angeles, New York and Nicaragua.There was the year I dated my husband, the two years we lived togetherbefore getting married, the year and a half trying to get pregnant. Then,last January, Isabelle arrived, and Mother Time.

Isabelle obliterated the world of the Franklin Planner with one loud yelp.Since then I've often felt like a sailor whose trusty compass suddenlypoints every direction but north. A year later, the hours are reemergingin somewhat recognizable form. But they will never look the same again.

My first hint of this seismic change came two nights after Isabelle's birthas I carried her around the hospital room at 4 a.m. while she craned herhead back to examine the shadows on the ceiling. All this exploration, Ifelt, could be better done during the day, but Isabelle howled every time Ireturned her to the bassinet. I knew babies eat at night. What was shockingto discover was all the other things they like to do after hours. Readingthe baby books, I discovered that infants come with no internal instructionsabout time; they can't differentiate night from day. The basic concept Ihad used to navigate life did not exist in Isabelle's world. I was supposedto teach her about time, specifically about sleep time.

This my husband and I tried vainly to do for six months. We had "quiettime" before "bedtime," both of which she greeted with a bright baby grin.I spent hours with Isabelle between midnight and 6 a.m. -- time not evenscheduled by Franklin. After six months of around-the-clock nursing,sleeping in the bed with the baby, sleeping on the couch by the babyand singing, rocking and slinging the baby (over my husband's shoulder in ababy carrier), we finally gave in to the sleep authorities and let her cryit out for three nights. She quickly became an eight-hour-a-night girl, butthose first months convinced me that bedtime is an artificial construct, asare many of our rituals. Why eat breakfast in the morning when you canenjoy scrambled eggs and toast at 3 a.m. while watching old movies oncable? Napping throughout the day -- what a concept! Eating "on demand" --what a life! Had I been able to live on Isabelle time I would have thrivedthose first six months. Instead, I felt like a traveler on the red-eye,suspended between two time zones, adjusted to neither.

Mothers often complain that they "don't have time." But once Isabelle begansleeping through the night and I had a chance to think coherently, Irealized that this isn't true. Mothers have lots of some kinds of time, andlittle of others. Mother Time is both abundant and scarce, which is whynobody who lives outside this zone, including many politicians, understandsour lives. A friend with a 9-to-5 job recently related how jealousshe is of my hours spent strolling with Isabelle. Long leisurely walksaren't something she has time to take. My days look like one long decadentvacation to her. The hours pass and I am still in the garden watchingIsabelle explore a patch of grass, the demands of the Franklin Plannerluxuriously suspended. I live in the present moment, largely because shewon't allow me to do anything else.

What I lack is "predictable time," all those hours time management expertssuggest you schedule for things that cannot be done with one hand and halfa brain. It's predictable time that allows for creative projects, thosemoments taken for yourself that keep you sane. I don't mind changingdiapers. What bugs me is that I am constantly drinking my coffee cold, thatlittle oasis of time for java and the New York Times now interrupted bybaby needs. When I do get time it comes so unexpectedly -- the baby sleepsan extra hour, my husband suddenly takes her on a walk -- that I am totallyunprepared and rush around like a madwoman trying to spend a credit Iknow will soon expire but not sure when, a state also not given toconcentration or contemplation.

As a result, my marriage has become one long negotiation over time. Anothernew mother put it aptly, "The only time you have for yourself is the timeyour partner gives you" -- or that you pay for. My husband and I are nolonger just lovers and confidants, we're shift workers, and that's what sustains us these days. Having both cut back on work to be withIsabelle, we trade her back and forth for equal blocks of time. Ondifficult days I've called for paybacks of 20 minutes. This sounds crassbut it's actually quite liberating because it ensures each of us thatrarest of commodities, predictable time. Aren't most mothers keeping trackanyway? Forget diamonds and rubies. Hours and minutes are the most valuablegifts my husband can give me now.

This is especially true given how fleeting time now seems. Life used topass in large blocks: another birthday, another Christmas, another newyear. On a daily basis its passing barely caught my attention. Now timezips by under my nose, leaving me grasping for yesterday's child. Today theinfant who could barely hold her head up stands swaying on the edge oftoddlerhood, the baby disappearing before my eyes. Isabelle marks my lifelike a bookend. When Isabelle is 40 I will be 80. My babywoman throws my mortality in my face every day.

I'm sure it won't always be so intense. New mothers are obsessed creatures.And things are changing. A nanny now comes afternoons and I write or go tothe gym. I've begun to check tasks off in my Franklin Planner again. I evensleep eight hours a night.

But then at 2 a.m. I'll hear something. I tiptoe into Isabelle's room,searching in the dark for that tiny infant with whom I watched the moon,that crazy creature who scoffed at the world's schedule.

But that tiny baby and sweet sliver of baby time are gone.
SALON | Feb. 26, 1999

Jennifer Bingham Hull is a Miami writer who reports on women's issuesand international affairs.