The sun was warm. The breeze blew mild. The air felt fresh. We sat on a bench, my four-year-old and I. Having succumbed to his request to "watch the water," we marveled at the spontaneity of the fountain as we enjoyed a shared moment together. Shooting out of the ground with little to no warning, sometimes the fountain danced with dramatic flair, high into the sky. Other times, it hovered low to the ground. Jonas squealed with delight as he settled his keen eyes on the choreographed wonder. After several minutes of being entertained, I offered, "Are you ready to go?" to which Jonas responded, "Can we watch two more times?" I checked my watch. I told him, "Sure! We can watch two more times but then we should go." He agreed. We watched. We assigned familial titles to the spurts of water. "Whoa!! Now that's a big daddy fountain!" Jonas giggled as he assigned new names to different spouts. After "two times," he jumped up. We headed for the escalator. No trouble. No tantrums. Great conversation ensued as we made our way to the car. I couldn't help but notice. Such a nice time together. What made the difference? I'm pretty sure the difference was me. I slowed down. Left margins. Gave him time to transition. Let him feel heard.
As a working mom, I am forever tempted to trample my kids under foot. These little people who flourish in the rain of gentle playfulness, who do much better with a more tender rhythm find themselves subjected to my governing sense of urgency. They don't do so well with my constant bark that testifies yet again, to the fact that we are running late. The image of a speed boat came to mind. I race to and fro attempting to manage the breadth of responsibilities that weigh so heavy upon me. And yet, I am reminded. My little side-kick isn't as speedy as I am. Resembling more of a cruise ship, his turns are slow and the party isn't somewhere else. It's right where he is.
