Daddy left for work an hour ago. We have snoozed and snuggled in the big bed too long. You watching cartoons on the tablet, me drifting between sleep and feeding your sister.
We have to get up. Now. Get up, get dressed, have breakfast, get in the car and drive to nursery.
Our morning is routine only in it’s lack of one. I rush you into your bedroom to get dressed. You get distracted; by a new Christmas gift, a sticker that has made its way upstairs on someone’s sock, by a dragon, a dinosaur, a teeeny tiny fairy, by your own imagination.
I shout. I shouldn’t shout but I do. Eventually you are dressed, your sister has her nappy changed and she too is dressed. Somewhere in this I have, miraculously, manage to dress myself, and, with me still nagging, we make it downstairs.
You are telling me a story, about a game you want to play, I have to ask three times what you would like for breakfast. Your sister plays on her mat, watching you, with those wide eyes and the smile that she reserves only for you. Breakfast is on the table while I stick washing in the machine, pack bags and de-ice the car. I’m ready to load the last two things into the car. My children. But you haven’t touched breakfast, instead you are deciding which of your toys you would like to take to nursery today. Which item will receive the honour of being shown to your friends.
You have no concept of time, my increasingly more frantic and pleading voice means nothing to you. So what if we are late? What does late mean anyway?
Nothing. It means nothing.
You teach me so much. There is plenty of time for rushing later. There are alarms and clocks and deadlines galore in your future. Now, this small window, of no work, no school, no expectations, this is our chance to slow down.
Slow down. Lie on the play mat. Fight the dragons. Tell the story. Play. Laugh. Love.
Time: right now we have it. Let’s not rush it.