How to turn 30 seconds into 30 years
“Will you lay down already?”
It’s a common phrase you’ll hear us say in exasperation to at least one of our daughters at about 8:05 pm in our household.
8:05 pm is bedtime for anyone under 6 in our home.
It’s also a little over 14 hours into a day where the folks over 6 have gotten kids up and ready for school, exercised, worked, played, done homework, made meals, cleaned up, bathed 2 kids, got ready for the next day, etc.
They’re tired. We’re tired. We’re all tired.
At 8:06 pm the “not-so-last” requests come in, “Can I have some water?”, “I have to potty.”
Request granted. Who wants to wake up in the middle of the night for a bathroom trip?
At 8:10 pm the grown-ups are pleading, again, “Now will you lay down?”
At 8:12 pm the little one’s come in with a special request, “Can we read one more book?”, “Can we talk a little more?”
Requests denied. A 5 or 2-year-old does not understand repercussions. In 10 hours one of us is dealing with a groggy kid who didn’t realize the later she sleeps the more miserable it will be waking up in the morning.
At 8:14 pm, as we are walking out of the room, we faintly hear another request, “Can I go hug Mommy and say good night?”
Request granted.
At 8:20 pm, the grown-ups are less pleading and now directing, “Now it’s really time to lay down.”
At 8:21 pm, there are no more requests, there is a reminder, “Dad, you forgot to kiss me good night.”
That is my mistake. I comply, swiftly.
At 10:54 pm, I hear a set of tiny feet pitter-patter to the top of our staircase.
“What’s up, love?” I say from the bottom of the staircase.
“Are dinosaurs going to eat our house?”, I hear asked from above with an overly concerned tone.
“Nope. Dinosaurs have been gone for a while.”, I respond.
“Can you lay down with me until I fall asleep?”, she volleys back.
“Of course.”, I say, while thinking: “She’s not going to think I can protect her from dinosaurs for much longer.”
I know this story has been written a million times. But this one is mine.
When my mind wanders and isn’t preoccupied with the practicalities of life, I often think about time.
The speed it moves (or how it seemingly can sometimes stay still).
When and how we use it (I’ll get to it next week).
The amount we waste (on being mad, being petty, or on trivial things).
The amount we have. Or we don’t have. The amount someone else has. Or they don’t.
Thinking about time is frustrating.
Mostly because of how much is unknown in terms of your quantity and how you’ve used it thus far in terms of its quality. You worry because you don’t know if you have enough time. You get frustrated because of the time you did have, did you use it well?
Recently I volunteered for my daughter’s book fair.
I thought it would be fun to surprise her. I had the time. It was all so innocuous.
So I thought.
A wave of nostalgia washed over me when I stepped into the gymnasium filled with hundreds of books, journals, pens, and toys.
I remembered when my Mom came to my book fair. I don’t remember the books I bought. I don’t remember the precise day it happened. I barely remember which grade I may have been in (somewhere between Kindergarten and second grade).
But I remembered how it felt. She showed up. We walked around together and looked at books, trying to figure out which ones I’d like. I introduced her to my friends. My Mom always made me feel important, but that day felt different. No, scratch that, it was different. She made time to come to the book fair, when not many parents did.
She used her time. In return, that 30 minutes she wisely used has stayed with me for over 30 years. At this point, it will very likely stay with me for the remainder of my time on this earth.
All of a sudden my time at that book fair was no longer innocuous. It was important.
At 10:30 am, my daughter entered with her classmates. Surprised, delighted, and a little shy to see me. She ran up to me for a hug once the teacher said to go look for books. The hug turned into a hand pull as she, her classmates, and I looked for the best books to buy.
At 11 am we checked out with her four books. She sits down with her classmates in the middle of the gymnasium, which is a signal to the teacher that they are done. I watch her. My often reserved daughter, bursting at the seams showing her friends her books, checking out their books. Beaming.
Again. Time. 30 minutes at the book fair with my daughter. The speed it moved was far faster. It did not feel like 30 minutes.
But it’s okay. The 30 minutes may have felt like 30 seconds at that moment, but it will stay with me for the rest of my time on this earth. And maybe it will for her, too.
I know we all know this. We all know time is fleeting. We know it’s not promised.
But, sometimes we can use the reminder.
Don’t do it later. Do it now.
Don’t hold grudges. Let it go.
Don’t rush it. Spend it purposefully.
And, if you can, make it a moment that will live longer than the time that was actually spent.
