Hurry and Surrender

I once allowed my mind to push us through time. 

Wake up!

To the toilet!

To the dresser!

To the table!

Cereal? Toast? Juice? Water?

Here are your boots... your coat! I've got your bag!

To the car!

To school...

I Park. 

We walk. 

Good-bye! 

Love you!

[SCHOOL]

Hello! 

Let's go! 

To the car! 

Get in the carseat. 

Please. Climb. Up.

And we’re in the car. 

To the house!

Ahhh. Home. 

Wash your hands.

Come to the table!

Your bath is ready!

Open your mouth - time to brush!

Put on your pajamas. 

Get into bed!

Books.

It's late. 

Lights out. 

It is time to sleep! 

Go to sleep. 

Sh sh sh! 

She is three years old.

You cannot hurry her into the car or she wanders into the parking lot weeds or the woods. You cannot hurry her into the bath or she dances away. And you certainly cannot hurry her to sleep. Sleep comes soon or sleep comes slow, and lately, on account of her napping at school, sleep comes slow.

She is not yet sleepy at 7:30. 

So with that truth, I surrender. And so we read books a little longer and she falls asleep a little later.

Every moment is meant for me. Even in these seemingly tedious times of transition. Even while waiting, weeping, and cleaning. Every moment is meant for me. Just as this child is meant for me. Already, at three, she is my wisest teacher. She is a master of the moment, and of play and spontaneity. I want to land on every moment the way she does, with such curiosity, confidence, and creativity.

As the adult, I am the doer and the time keeper. This all has its place. However, I don't want to hurry her when I don’t need to. Hurry becomes worry. And what is worry but a wrecking ball in the body, putting me into an angry, clumsy frenzy? I don't want that for her and I don't want that for me. And so I surrender. Stress never stalls time anyway. Instead, with this small person, stress stretches time into long fits of strife and struggle. Therefore, I surrender. 

Yes, clear boundaries. 

Yes, routine. 

And yes too to her whims, wants, and needs.

Yes to empathy. 

When I must wake her now, I try not to speak. Instead, I play sweet, soft songs, songs without drums or cymbals or horns, - just voices, and strings.

I set down the speaker in the dark...

slumber

song

arm

eyes open

blink

sit

stretch

rise 

dress

pee 

soap & water

food

breathe 

quiet drive

park 

carry 

walk 

goodbye, love 

[school]

hello

car

home

play 

hands 

supper

play 

bathing 

brushing 

bed

books 

and books 

and books

and snuggle

and slumber

[It isn't always this small and slow and quiet, but this soft flow is the goal.]