“Just five more minutes.”
This is the familiar refrain from my older son as my partner and I tuck him into bed each night, hoping for a moment of connection as he drifts off to sleep. Having recently transitioned into the world of “big kid” adventures—complete with a toddler bed and superhero pajamas—this request serves as one of the last reminders of his fleeting babyhood. To be honest, I sometimes feel a twinge of annoyance. As a stay-at-home mom, I rarely have a moment to myself. Those precious minutes when both kids are asleep are sacred; I guard them fiercely, avoiding distractions that might encroach on my time alone.
As I sit cross-legged on the floor of his room, I often find myself planning what I’ll do next instead of savoring these final moments of the day together. I envision myself ten minutes later, curled up on the couch with a remote in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, indulging in mindless entertainment without anyone vying for my attention.
Sometimes, my daydreams are more practical: I think about tackling the laundry piled in the bathroom or scrubbing the remnants of dinner from the skillet in the sink. So many tasks beckon me while my son squirms in his bed, the knowledge of my impending exit making it harder for him to settle down. Yet, I realize that these requests for five more minutes will soon be a thing of the past, replaced by very different ones.
When he turns six, he’ll plead for five more minutes to stay outside with his neighbor. Despite their occasional squabbles, they’ll be engrossed in play, completely forgetting yesterday’s disagreements. With school keeping him cooped up most of the day, I’ll let it slide, knowing how quickly his childhood is slipping away.
Fast forward to age eleven, and mornings will become a battleground as he groans for just five more minutes of sleep. I’ll remind him of the last time he asked for that extra time and ended up missing the bus, and that today, there’s no option for that. Part of me will look forward to when he can drive himself, while another part will mourn the loss of this last thread of dependence on me.
At seventeen, he’ll text from his girlfriend’s house, begging for five more minutes despite being late for curfew. He’ll insist the movie is just about to end, and while I know they might not even be watching it, I’ll indulge him because I remember those lovesick days of wanting just a bit more time. “Finish the movie,” I’ll reply. “But you better be home by 11.”
Eventually, he’ll head off to college, where he won’t need to ask for anything much, except maybe to ensure the washing machine is empty by the time he returns home. I’ll fill my days with work and errands, yet my phone will always be close by, hoping for a call during his five-minute walk back to his dorm.
Years later, my son will bring his family over for a weekend visit, filling our home with the sweet chaos of children that I often long for. I’ll watch my granddaughter as she concentrates, her head tilting the same way her father used to, and I’ll see my own long lashes framing my grandson’s eyes, reminiscent of the time I spent marveling at my son’s features.
As the visit winds down, I’ll sense it’s time for them to leave, but it will still be hard to say goodbye. As my son gathers the children’s things scattered around the house, I’ll feel a strong urge to ask him, “Can you stay just a little longer?”
“Alright, Mom,” he’ll say with a smile. “Five more minutes.” And even if he’s just humoring me during that countdown, those precious minutes will bring me a comfort that words can’t capture.
Summary
This reflective piece captures the fleeting moments between a mother and her son, showcasing how simple requests for “five more minutes” evolve from childhood into adulthood. Each stage of their relationship highlights the bittersweet nature of growing up and the cherished memories created during those brief moments together.
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