They’re off before I have the chance to say goodbye or wish them a good day. Their little heads bob through the sea of kids and parents. Just as they blend into the throng of students pouring through the school entrance, I catch a glimpse of them reaching for each other’s hands. They don’t wait for the other to go first; they instinctively grasp each other’s hands simultaneously before vanishing into the crowd.
I linger for a moment, standing on my tiptoes, trying to catch sight of their dark, curly hair or the bright green backpacks they wear with pride. If I could just see a tiny piece of them before they fully disappear, I could send one last wish and an invisible hug as they embark on their day. But alas, too many children have filled the space between us.
I find myself wishing for these moments to last just a bit longer, but it seems impossible against the whirlwind of energy that my two boys possess. Even when they’re bickering and whining—being the rambunctious kids they are—I wish time would slow down.
In these fleeting moments, I witness my children deep in the throes of becoming their own individuals, learning how the world operates, asking questions, and shaping their internal compasses. It’s reminiscent of drawing; suddenly, the lines and smudges take shape and transform into three-dimensional figures. My kids are emerging with a newfound clarity.
Looking back, there were countless moments I wanted to fast forward through, the exhausting cycle of diaper changes, feeding, burping, and sleepless nights on repeat. While everyone around me seemed to want to freeze those sweet baby days, I feared being completely consumed by my little ones, swallowed up in the folds of their chubby cheeks and endless giggles.
As a child, I never played with dolls. Stuffed animals, yes, but dolls were a different story. I was terrified when my firstborn came into the world. Whenever I managed to untangle myself from his little limbs, I would dash out of our apartment, bursting through the door, reeking of sour milk. It didn’t matter where I went; I just needed to escape. Yet, every ticking second until I had to return felt like a weight pressing down on my chest. At times, I fantasized about walking away without a backward glance.
When my son turned 16 months, my husband left for a business trip. Hours after he drove away in his black sedan, my son’s needy cries and my own anxiety intensified to a suffocating degree. I wanted to leap out of my skin. I carried my son to his crib, closed the door, and grabbed my phone.
“I can’t take this,” I blurted out when my husband answered. “He won’t stop crying. I can’t do this anymore!” The words burned as they left my mouth—painful yet true. “If he doesn’t stop, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
After we hung up, my husband booked the next flight home.
Those were days when I didn’t want to pause; I desperately needed to rush through those stages for my own sanity. Maybe I had to push through those early years quickly to reach this point, where I feel less like I’m merely pretending to be a mom and the anxiety doesn’t rise like a bitter taste in my throat. Now, I find myself resisting the urge to rush forward, not just for my own sake but for my children’s as well.
At school pickup, I see my kids emerge through the crowd just as swiftly as they disappeared in the morning. On our walk home, I listen as they chatter effortlessly with one another and chase each other down the sidewalk. A smile creeps across my face as I realize I feel calm. We’ve found our rhythm. We even take a detour to the playground so they can continue their game of tag. After all, we’re not in a hurry to reach anywhere.
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In summary, the journey of parenting is filled with moments of chaos, growth, and connection. While it often feels like a race against time, it’s essential to embrace the present and find joy in the little things.