Cluster the clock hands as you wish, and according to my son Lev, it will be 6.40. In fact, it’s 6.40 every time, all the time. One morning at the lake, the little pitter patter of his bare feet gave way to his warm baby’s breath as he tip toed into our room.
He whispered, “Momma, is it 6.40 yet?” I rolled over, pried my eyes, and lo and behold, it was exactly 6.40. That is, 6.40am.
The early wake up call didn’t damper my smile any. His small voice suddenly opened an idea, like the sonic bloom at the start of the day. No matter what time it actually was, his newly acquired concept of time remained generalized, and he thought his every existence occurred at 6.40. As if he carried a miniature pocket watch spiked in a single direction.
Sometimes, like twice a day, he’s right. But for the other 1438 minutes of the day, he’s wrong. Dead wrong.
No matter to him. The truth is that the exact time impacts him very little. Because his idea of time is less about preciseness and more about presentness. And every minute is a petal of temporal flora.
His invisible pocket watch doesn’t tick, but it’s full of posy.
So often as parents, we just want the day to be over or at least be doing something else (like, ahem, sleeping in). Been there. Still there, sometimes. Like the days whirl around in a chaotic circle – Ring around the rosy on repeat.
But the truth is, it’s the single minutes that, when strategically placed, add up to an arrangement worth savouring. A bouquet worth saving. And a blossom worth safeguarding.
And, let’s be real. We don’t have to love the whole day to appreciate the beauty of a few minutes. The ones that make us smile happy. Smile real. Smile full. Those are the ones that will lift you when you fall down.
And if the routine got the best of you today, husha, husha. We all fall down sometimes.