Her small size leads you to believe that you know all there is to know about her.

You are correct to discern that she cries a lot, talks a lot, can’t do math, can’t read, eats an incredible amount of food considering her weight, plays with toys, likes to be tucked in at night, asks to have her hand held if she’s not being carried, places a frightening level of trust in adults, and sometimes has accidents.

You’re also correct if you guess that she can’t carry on a conversation which furthers any agenda, she has a surprising stubbornness, her fantasy world is repetitious, and very few of her actions are original.  It is easy to see why people like her have lost their appeal.  They require attention.  They need help.  They listen; they believe; they mimic; they obey; they break; they depend on others; they spill their milk regularly.

What you might not notice is that she can’t tell time.  That’s right.  She doesn’t know what time is.  Not just what time of day it is, but she doesn’t have an awareness of time.  Can you remember what life was like before you knew what time was?  Probably not.  But maybe you can remember something about life before you used an alarm clock to remind you that your life was so important that you must stop resting.  Being around her–being around them–is the closest thing any of us will get to living without time again.

Without time 40 lbs never felt so light; repetitious stories never sounded so good; cleaning up spills never required less energy; soothing cries never seemed so desirable.  Without time raising a child never seemed so natural.