Before I can even utter a goodbye or offer a cheerful “Have a great day,” my kids are off, their heads bobbing through a sea of parents and children. Just before they blend into the throng of students pouring through the school entrance, I catch a glimpse of them reaching for each other’s hands simultaneously, a silent pact of togetherness, and then they’re gone.
I linger for a moment, standing on my tiptoes, hoping to catch a last look at their dark hair or vibrant backpacks. If only I could see a trace of them before they vanish, I could send them my final good wishes and an invisible hug to accompany them on their day. But the crowd is too thick; they’re swallowed up by the chaos.
I find myself wishing for these fleeting moments to last just a bit longer, though I know it’s futile against the whirlwind energy of my two boys. Even in their moments of bickering and playful whining, when their voices are both heard and seen, I want time to slow down.
In these instances, I recognize my children are deep in the process of becoming their own individuals—navigating the world, asking questions, and developing their own internal compasses. It’s akin to creating a drawing, where suddenly the lines start to transform into three-dimensional shapes. My boys are coming into sharper focus.
There were countless moments in the past that I wished to fast forward through—the endless cycle of diaper changes, feedings, and sleepless nights. While many around me cherished those baby stages, I feared being engulfed by my little ones, lost within the never-ending folds of chubby cheeks and rolls.
As a child, I never played with dolls; stuffed animals were my companions, but I never practiced motherhood with them. The fear of being overwhelmed by my first child was real. As soon as I could free myself from his grasp, I’d rush out of the apartment, desperate to escape the confines of my own home, even if it meant walking out smelling of sour milk. Each tick of the clock before I had to return felt like an anchor pressing down on my chest. Sometimes, I fantasized about never looking back.
When my son turned 16 months, my husband departed for a business trip. Just hours after he left, the weight of my son’s needs and my anxiety felt suffocating. I wanted to scream. I carried my son to his crib, closed the door behind me, and called my husband.
“I can’t do this,” were the first words that escaped my lips when he answered. “I hate this! He won’t stop crying. I can’t take it anymore!” The truth of those words burned like a fire in my chest. “If he doesn’t stop, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
After our call, my husband immediately booked the next flight home.
During those days, the thought of pausing was unbearable. I desperately wished to rush through those stages for my own sanity and for the well-being of my family. Perhaps I needed to speed through those times to reach a point where I no longer felt like I was merely pretending to be a mother, where my anxiety didn’t linger like a bad taste in my mouth. I now find myself resisting the urge to rush ahead, both for my sake and for my children’s.
At school pick-up, I see my boys reemerging from the crowd just as swiftly as they vanished that morning. As we stroll home together, I listen to their easy chatter and watch them chase each other along the sidewalk. A smile spreads across my face as I realize I’m not anxious. We’ve found our rhythm. We even take a detour through the playground to let them continue their game of tag; after all, we’re in no hurry.
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In summary, cherishing the moments with our children, no matter how chaotic, is essential. By finding joy in the present and resisting the urge to rush ahead, we can embrace our journey as parents while supporting our kids in their growth.