Life is busy. Crazy busy.

Way too busy to finish any of the things I actually want to finish. There just isn’t enough time. At least that’s what used to think. But nearly 5 years ago, something happened that changed the way I thought about time forever.

It was the night before July 18th. My dad was racing us through the streets of Surrey amidst one the wildest thunderstorms we’d ever seen, zig-zagging between knee-deep puddles of rain as my wife was swept left and right in the rear of the car until finally, we arrived at the hospital. A few hours (and one tremendous display of unmedicated labor — by my wife, not me) later — my daughter was born.

The first few weeks were a blur. Tears and laughter (neither of them from the baby) flanked sleepless nights and difficult days. But eventually, as all parents do, we found a rhythm. We learned to understand our daughter. And we learned to understand each other, and what we would need to become, even more.

That’s when time really started to speed up. Watching a baby grow is incomparable. Like watching a video at 10x normal speed, everything they do seems to fly by. And if you aren’t paying enough attention, you risk missing all those memories that you can never get back. Before long, they’re walking, talking and repeating expletives reserved for your enemies.

But here’s the caveat. As family times speeds up, everything else begins to move in super-slow motion.

Before my kids, I could barely scroll through my Instagram feed before the train pulled up at my stop. Now, I can build a website in the time it takes to get to work. And writing a bit of javascript is child’s play compared to keeping your 6-month-old alive at soft-play.
Before my kids, I could barely get through a game of FIFA during the evening before it was all over. Now, I can design a game in the time it takes the latest bundle of DLC to download. And making games is child’s play compared to keeping two toddlers in your line of sight at the supermarket.
Before my kids, I could barely flick through a few pages of a novel over a weekend before Monday crept up on me. Now, I can write a few chapters of my own novel in that time. And writing novels’ is child’s play compared to reading The Gruffalo for the four hundredth time.

For me, time became way more manageable with context. Between every transition from soiled nappies and temper tantrums, to nursery-runs and ballet classes — there was a window. The question became what to fill each window with.

And somewhere, round about Gruffalo retelling 359, I had an idea. But if it was going to work, it would take planning. It would take creativity. It would take inspiration. And it would take time. Luckily, I had a window for each.

To Be Continued…

(This ended up being kind of a quick prologue, but over the next couple of weeks I’ll take you through what it’s been like getting this project from start to finish while balancing everything else life throws at you!)