My 4-year-old lives outside the world of Time.  She’s the incarnation of the early philosophers who knew Time was an illusion, a human construct.  Born into the present moment, Ava wants to keep living in the N0w–  if only her mother would let her.

She wakes up and launches herself into a project– a homemade book about mermaids, say, or a paper castle built of tape.  Engrossed in the creative act, she protests my demands that she get dressed and ready.

It’s 8 am and the battle-lines are drawn.

I live at the mercy of Time.  One eye on the clock, I rush around the kitchen in my nightgown, packing lunches and scrambling eggs, gathering stray mittens and socks.  I’m always anticipating the future, trying not to be late.  Using a crude combination of bribery and threat, I wrangle both girls into snowsuits and boots.  Every day, it’s an act of sheer will.

“Who wants a gold star for Morning Cooperation?” I ask sweetly.

If that doesn’t work, my voice deepens to a growl–”Mommy’s patience is very small right now.  It’s only the size of a pea.  Let’s get ready RIGHT NOW before it disappears!”

Usually the toddler starts wailing, but at least we get out the door.

I herd both children into the car, buckle them into their seats, and blast the Mary Poppins soundtrack.  Then I run back inside to throw on some pants and brush my teeth.   Those three minutes to myself are sacred, but they come at a cost.

Our morning has not been harmonious.  I haven’t respected my daughter’s internal rhythms, honored her desire for art and play.

This conflict is familiar to many parents:  adults need to be on time, and young children hate to be rushed.  Kids want to live in the moment, be curious, have fun.

What if we tried to be more like them, instead of working hard to turn them into us?  Can we resist imposing the time-bound world onto their wild imaginations?

I imagine a day when my children run free, completely unscheduled.  No meals, no clothes, no plans, no bedtime.  I see them roaming the house in their pajamas, playing, fighting, making messes.  Eventually, they’d get hungry and tired, even bored.  Maybe they’d ask me for food, or a video.  But I’d already have checked myself into the Retreat.

I’m not sure when I turned into a Time Taskmaster.   Certainly it wasn’t in the early weeks of the Baby Cave, when there was no separation between day and night.  The newborn woke every few hours for milk, whether it was 3 a.m. or noon.

Together we inhabited a drowsy gray world without any boundaries.  I stayed home and nursed on demand, trying to sleep when she slept, as the books advised.  I didn’t schedule anything– or not anything pressing.  My life was elemental, reduced to the basics of human survival:  eat, sleep, love.  But I also felt unmoored from myself, confused and antsy.

Sometimes I envy the mothers wandering the Co-op with their infants in slings, moving as if they were underwater.  This is my own projection, of course.  Who knows what constraints of work, money, childcare, and time press down on them?  But nostalgia washes over me for that murky world of new motherhood, before I started rushing around town.

“Mommy, are we late?  Are we very late?” asks Ava.  We’re running across the parking lot for gymnastics class, ten minutes behind schedule.  I hate being late.  For me, it’s a point of honor, a form of etiquette.  Punctuality keeps society functioning.

But it can become a compulsion.  I don’t want to work my family into a state of stress over ten minutes.  I’m teaching my four-year-old to race the clock, and she’s learning fast.

The preschool charges $1 a minute for late pick-ups.  I understand the punctuality policy, but it fills me with hectic anxiety.  Rush to get ready, rush to drop-off, rush to teach yoga, rush to pick-up!  How can I face these deadlines with a spirit of equanimity?

My friend Maria lived for years in Costa Rica.  Her biggest culture shock from New England life wasn’t the snow or the people, but the fixation with time.

“In Costa,” she says, “everyone is late.  They simply don’t worry about it. Manyana, manyana… ”

Here, Maria refuses to be a slave to time.  I see her savoring the slow walk uphill to Kindergarten, holding her daughter’s hand.  Unapologetically, she’s told the teacher that they may often be late.

Meanwhile, I’m sprinting back to my car to squeeze in another five minutes at my laptop.  My constant rushing derives from a fear of scarcity.  I’m afraid that there’s never enough time.  Never enough to sleep, work, write, run, make love, or fit in everything in a given day.  My worry forces me to live in the future, always anticipating.  I haven’t accepted that the unfolding present is the only reality that ever is.

But children are the Zen masters of the present moment.  I could memorize Eckhart Tolle‘s The Power of Now, or I could witness it unfolding in my kitchen.  My girls are here to be my teachers, if only I could let them.  Unburdened by the planning-thinking-monkey mind, they surrender themselves to their play.

Carmen strips naked and runs laps in her ballet shoes, throwing a “dance recital.”  She doesn’t know or care that it’s 7:30 pm– time for bath and bed, the exorable routines to which I desperately cling.

What would happen if I relented a bit in my role as Family Timekeeper?  Would we never get to work or school or anything again?  Probably not.

From now on, I want dance the fine line, live the tension between punctuality and presence.  After all, time plays tricks on parents. People with older children often tell me, “Each day feels long, but the years fly by.”

They’re warning me to savor the moment that’s happening right now.  The madness, joy, and exuberance of Two and Four.  Can I follow my children’s lead, and stay (mostly) on time?

Tags:   Costa Rica · Mary Poppins · punctuality · The Power of Now · timeNo Comments