“Hurry!” I say to them as we’re rushing out the door for anything you choose: school, scouts, church, piano, fun at the park. “Please.Come.On!” I insist, louder, my voice trilling up to something akin to a screech. “NOW!” and I have blown past screeching to unadulterated yelling. They hurry now, realizing that I am mad. Their faces show the dread of what follows my yelling; my temper is not pretty, particularly when I feel impatience rising up in me, vile and ugly. I do not like this me, angry and hurried, harried and haggard.
I long to move slower.
I keep thinking, “Ten minutes. If there were just ten extra minutes, we would be on time. all day. Why are we always late? Why are we always rushing?” I know the answer, know it like I know the freckles sprinkled across Abigail’s nose and the shape of the café au lait spot on Gracie’s calf. We are always rushing not because we need ten more minutes. We are rushing because I haven’t engaged with the girls until seconds before it’s time to leave. I tell them, “Get your shoes! Brush your hair! Don’t forget your teeth!” I bark these orders absent-mindedly while I answer one more email, type one more line of code, click one more link on Pinterest, like one more post on Facebook. And then I am surprised when I finally look up, pay attention to something other than myself, and they, these unfocused girls of mine, have done nothing that I have asked. I am mad at them for not listening I tell myself. Truthfully, the one who deserves my anger is me. We don’t need ten more minutes. They, we, me need ten minutes of undivided attention. They, we, me need to admit to me, us, the universe that multi-tasking is an oxymoron, something that would be more aptly titled do-nothing-well-and-everything-piss-poorly-tasking.
I flirt with an idea that is dancing around in the far corners of my brain, almost out of reach. What if I do one thing at a time and do it well? What if I stand with my daughters while they brush their teeth, help them, nurture them. Hello! Mother them. What if Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance could translate to Zen and the Art of Getting My Daughters Out the Door on Time. What if? What if? What if? No, I scoff at myself…I don’t have time to do that. I .don’t.have.time. A whisper of a conversation I had with an acquaintance tickles my memory. “How do you do everything?” she asks and I answer, in a moment of rare honesty. “I do lots of things, but I don’t do anything well.” I.don’t.have.time.
Maybe, just maybe I do have time. Time. Time to do things slowly. separately. well. Maybe if I have time I will have time. Maybe, just maybe I think to myself, it would be better to do less, but do it better. Maybe my Facebook page will lay dormant; maybe my Pinterest boards will be empty of the coolest craft that I never have time to do. Maybe, though, we’ll get out the door on time for anything and everything. And maybe the me, the hurried and harried, angry and haggard me that I do not like, maybe there won’t be any time left for her.
I stand with my girls, zipping them up in their puffy winter coats adorned with purple hearts and pink Peace signs. We are not late and I do not use words profane when the zippers get stuck in the nylon. I help Gracie with her backpack and Abigail with her shoes and when we can’t find one of her white tennis shoes, I do not feel my heart race and color flood my face; instead, I shrug and pull out the scruffy black Mary Jane’s that she’d rather wear anyway. I do not scream; I do not yell. We have time. Simple, beautiful, joyful time. As we count our God presents on the cold drive to school, I do not feel stressed. I chatter along with them as they shout out the presents God gave them today. “Church!” “The community center!” “Mrs. Murphy!” “Mommy!” “Abigail!” “Gracie!” “Hot Chocolate on a cold morning!” At the top of my list of God’s presents today is time, time enough to go slowly. I do have time.