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Standing Still While Running
Before I can even manage a simple goodbye or wish them a good day, they’re off—heads bobbing among the sea of children and parents. Just before they vanish into the throng bustling through the school doors, I catch a glimpse of them clasping hands. It’s a simultaneous gesture; neither reaches out first, and then they’re gone.
I linger on my tiptoes, hoping to spot a flash of their dark hair or brightly colored backpacks. If only I could see a tiny piece of them before they fully disappear, I could send them off with one last good wish and an invisible hug. But the crowd is too dense, and they’re lost to me.
I find myself wishing these moments could stretch just a bit longer, but it feels futile against the whirlwind energy of my two boys. Even in their bickering and playful squabbles, as loud and wild as they can be, I wish time would slow down.
It’s during these fleeting times that I see my kids evolving into their own people, navigating the world, asking questions, and forming their own identities. It’s like watching a drawing come to life, where lines and smudges suddenly shape into three-dimensional figures. My kids are developing into fuller versions of themselves.
Looking back, there were countless moments I couldn’t wait to rush through—the endless cycle of diaper changes, feedings, and sleepless nights. While everyone else seemed to want to freeze those adorable baby moments, I feared being completely consumed by their needs, lost amidst the endless folds of chubby cheeks.
I never really played with dolls as a kid. Sure, stuffed animals were my thing, but I never pretended to be a mom. When my firstborn arrived, I felt a wave of terror. I often escaped the apartment, desperate for fresh air and a break from the chaos, even if the sour smell of spilled milk clung to me. Each passing second felt like an anchor weighing me down, and some days I fantasized about just keeping on walking.
When my son was 16 months old, my husband had to leave for a business trip. A few hours after he left, the weight of my son’s clinginess and my own anxiety became unbearable. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Cradling my son in his crib, I closed the door and grabbed my phone to call my husband.
“I can’t take this,” were the first words that tumbled out. “He won’t stop crying. It’s driving me insane. I just can’t do this!” The truth of my feelings hit hard. “If he doesn’t stop, I don’t know what I’ll do.” After we hung up, my husband caught the next flight home.
Those were the days I wanted to fast forward through. I needed to move past those exhausting stages for my sanity and for my family’s well-being. Perhaps I rushed through those times so desperately to reach a point where I didn’t feel like I was just pretending to be a mother. Now, I resist that urge to hurry forward, not just for me but for my kids too.
At school pickup, I see my boys reemerge from the crowd as quickly as they vanished. As we make our way home, I watch them chat easily with each other, their laughter ringing out as they chase each other down the sidewalk. A smile spreads across my face. I realize I’m not feeling anxious anymore; we’ve found our rhythm. We even take a detour to the playground to let them keep playing tag. After all, there’s no rush to be anywhere.
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In summary, the journey of parenting is a whirlwind of emotions, from feeling overwhelmed and anxious to finding joy and rhythm in daily life. It’s about cherishing the fleeting moments of childhood as our kids grow and develop into their own unique selves.