Time Flying Badge

This is about minute 33 of the fit where she screams, "Stop taking pictures of me."

Usually I write during nap time. Today I'm changing things up. We are in minute 43 of my almost 3 year old's time out. You might be able to hear her at your house right now. It sounds like the Exorcist meets late-night neighborhood cat/rabbit fight. I keep asking her if she's ready to be all done. After I'm brutally rebuffed, she breaks into a violent fist-pumping rendition of the "Oompa Loompa" song.

Yes. This is for real. I couldn't in my wildest dreams make this up.

Last week I almost blogged about having the perfect day; about how for a brief moment I had been given a reprieve from crazy town. I wanted to write about it, but I just couldn't do it. One, because I knew some of my friends weren't having that kind of day. And two, because I knew it wasn't going to last.

With a few exceptions, if I am really happy or really sad or really angry or really anything, I can hold my breath and the moment has passed. There isn't a lot of time for basking. It seems that every moment, every experience is fleeting - at least in this season of my life. I feel like for the first time I believe, I understand, I live within the constraints of "time flying."

On our three-day road trip home from Maine a few weeks ago, I tried an experiment. Every time I started to have a buildup of angry emotions - like I wanted to shove Michael's iPad down his throat or drop my kids at the rest stop - I would look at the clock and tell myself if I still felt the same way in 15 minutes I would take action. I'm happy to report that Michael's iPad is still intact and all four kids made it home.

This time flying thing is good and bad, isn't it? It's good when I'm mad. Case and point - my husband and kids are safe and well. It's good when I'm feeling down. Today I'm in one of those "Do I have any friends?" funks. Do you have those? Bleh. But I've only been counting my friends and making the "reasons you are not alone list" in my head for about an hour. Already I'm starting to feel better. Time flying is good when I'm discouraged, stressed, lonely, sad. Time flying is good when my kids are naughty, when Michael is a butt or when a vacation is still a month away.

But there are days like last week when I want to reach out and grab time by the throat and tell it to slow the hell down. Maybe to stop all together. I know it's unrealistic and not possible. I know if I stopped time now I'd miss out on great things to come. I know every cliche thing you could tell me about time flying by. I've just been finding it difficult lately to give myself fully to the moment, to really let go and really enjoy and really feel when I know that in the blink of an eye - more like the poke of an eye in our family - it will be gone.

It kind of hurts.

In the middle of the most wonderful occasions I find myself - just for a brief moment, of course, because time is flying - feeling sad. When we're eating dinner with friends, relaxing on a date, chatting with neighbors, sharing our "happy and sads", singing in the car, enjoying our family, I hear a voice that reminds me that this won't last. At least not here.

It's in those gut-aching moments that I'm reminded and hold onto and am deeply thankful for a time coming that is everlasting. A time that is never ending. A time that is endless. A time where my joy is permanent. (A shout out to U2 for writing a song that reminds me of this.)

And as it always does, time has passed and Ella is finished fitting. My writing time is over.

I Don't Know Badge

I am in an endless state of "don't knowing."


What should the kids wear today? I don't know.
Jack just poked Evelyn in the eye. What do I do? I don't know.
It's raining. What should we do today? I don't know.
Evelyn just spit on the floor. What do I do? I don't know.
Can/should the kids have chocolate milk with breakfast/lunch/dinner? I don't know.
Ella won't go to sleep - ever. What do I do? I don't know.
Netflix for one, two, three hours per day? I don't know.
Henry is crying and crying and crying. What do I do? I don't know.

I DON'T KNOW.

Not knowing is draining. Discouraging. Defeating. A few nights ago the kids were on a major sugar binge after a late-evening birthday celebration. Jack wouldn't go to bed. Every five minutes for about three hours he came out of his room to tell us he couldn't sleep. Five seconds after that Michael would stare at me with that "what the hell do we do" look. Do we let him cuddle in our bed? Do we let him sit up with us? Do we bribe? Do we threaten? I don't know.

This - mothering - is my full time job and most of the time I don't know what I'm doing. I would be fired if I were in any other line of work.

"Doctor, I broke my foot. Can you fix it?"
"Well, I don't know."

"Dentist, I have a cavity. Can you fill it?"
"Hmmm, I don't really know."

I read books on parenting and it seems like the authors know. I look around at other families and their kids are sweet and kind and thoughtful and I assume they know. I talk to my mom role models and they must know. Right?

But I still wonder - does any parent really know? Is it possible to know? Am I alone in my don't knowing? Can I become less don't-ing and more knowing? Will I someday answer questions like - "Should I let the baby cry it out?" "How many bites of food should the kids eat at dinner?" "Organic vs. non-organic" - with confidence and boldness and insight? Will I ever know what to do?

I just heard a really smart guy - Phil Strout - talk about wisdom. He said we don't parachute into wisdom. We step into it with our left foot, our right foot, our left foot, our right foot. It comes gradually, painstakingly and often shows up after the fact. Ugh. Just when I need it most. One husband, four kids and a crazy golden doodle - someone charter me a plane and grab me that chute.

But until that flight shows up, I guess I'm just going to put one foot in front of the other and pray that with each step forward, I'm going to know a little bit more than the one before.