I dash and dart, sprint and speedwalk, and occasionally even arrive on time. But rushing is not one of my strengths.
My partner, Ward, would be the first person to tell you I’m no good at it. Frequently, when we need to have left the house five minutes ago, he has the pleasure of watching me rush in and out of rooms, uncertain of what I’m looking for, but convinced that there’s something I still need to pack, turn off, pick up, put on or do before we exit.
Still, at least I understand the rhythm of rushing. I can quicken my step and hasten to the car with the appropriate level of nervous energy. My children on the other hand ...
Yesterday we arrived at my son’s fencing class right on time (meaning that when I pulled into my parking space, it was time for the class to start). I blurted my typical, “Okay, we’re here, let’s go,” snatched the keys from the ignition, scooped up my things and jumped out of the car, locking and closing my door. Then I scurried to the trunk, removed Evan’s fencing bag, and positioned myself near his door for the handoff, at which point I realized my sons were still sitting in the backseat, seatbelts on, having what looked like a very civilized conversation.
Rolling my eyes and exhaling dramatically, I pulled open Evan’s door and called, “Come on guys, let’s go, we’re going to be late.” Twenty full seconds later — I know, because I counted in my head — they emerged, still chatting away, unworried.
This dynamic continued all the way into the building, up three flights of stairs and through the enormous, maze-like corridors, of the Dana Warp Mill, with me hurrying white rabbit-like and issuing frenzied admonitions as my children continued to move at an unconcerned pace, watching me as though I was an amusing cartoon character they couldn’t quite comprehend.
Frequently, I find myself in this situation, trying to rush my children only to realize that they move at just one speed: their own.
At first, I thought perhaps they were part of a new generational phenomenon — a mellow new breed, an evolutionary step beyond our Western obsession with time. But thinking back, I realized I was much the same as a child.
My mother was constantly trying to move me along to no avail. She tried everything to get me places on time — waking me early; helping me pack clothes, books, or lunches; giving me warnings at 30 minutes, 15 minutes, 10 and 5. Nothing worked.
In high school, I could be completely ready to go in the morning and then suddenly decide I needed to change my clothes — or better yet, make a new pair of pants. I can remember sitting at the sewing machine in my underwear on more than one occasion, calling to my mother, “I just need to hem these. Can you make me an English muffin?”
One Christmas, my mother gave me a curling iron that stayed hot for 30 minutes after being unplugged so that I could do my hair in the car. The next year I got a travel hairdryer. But regardless of how much time my mother helped me save, I always found a new way to spend it.
I’m better about time now. With gentle, thoughtful, patient — but firm — guidance from Ward, I’ve improved drastically, but my children remain uninfluenced. They’re on time for things if I get them moving early enough (which indicates that this has been my problem all along, not theirs), but they still don’t grasp the concept of hurrying.
No matter how much I clap my hands, urge them on or dance around chirping, “We’re late! We’re late!” their pace remains slow, and their attitude relaxed, like Bedouins crossing a desert. It simultaneously aggravates and impresses me — this insistence upon moving at their own pace, believing that whenever we arrive at our destination will be the right time.
Maybe they ARE part of a new evolution. Maybe they’ll live lives more centered on being present than being punctual. Or maybe, like me, they’ll just be perpetually late until they meet someone who gently teaches them another way. I guess I’ll have to just be patient and see what happens, which is a bummer.
I hate to be kept waiting.
Belinda Ray is a homeschooling mother and freelance writer who finds time to write when her children and their friends have lightsaber battles in the yoga room (but only if the laundry is already folded and everyone’s been fed).