Four snow plows barreled down the highway, confidently scraping snow from the pavement. At the end of the onramp, we merged into the right lane, taking our place in the plows’ wake. Trailing behind the decisive fleet, my journey to the hospital felt meek. I couldn’t comprehend the transition I was about to make. How could I? In two hours, I’d become a mother. The whole of my heart was at stake.
When my son was born, I didn’t experience the “instant love,” that media purports to be the norm. For me, it was a slow simmer. A beautiful feeling that, over time, distilled down, becoming somehow richer and more potent with every experience we shared. That sweet sauce ensconced in my blood—pumping through my heart, moving my body, giving me life. It’s always there.
It’s chemical, it’s otherworldly, it’s unexplainable.
There’s something about my love for my children that complicates my relationship with time. The clichés are unnervingly accurate: “time flies” … “they grow up so fast” … “the days are long but the years are short.”
But, to me, it’s even more than that.
It’s mornings, when suddenly my daughter looks impossibly big. It’s watching my son load the school bus without looking back. It’s outgrown clothes, lost teeth, and candles on cakes. Each occasion delivering a pang of heartache, punctuated with the desperate plea: for the love of god, please, time—slow down.
And yet, there were so many moments in the early days, when a roiling urge inside me yearned for time to pass more quickly. After two straight hours of bouncing/shushing/rocking my cranky baby and my body ached with fatigue. The fifth day of having a toddler home from daycare with a fever, my patience paper thin. Or the final hour of a long drive, when the only thing my tiny passengers wanted was to break free of their car seats. The minutes couldn’t pass quickly enough.
Then of course, with kids, there are endless “problems.” Each week it’s something new. One kid’s language development isn’t quite progressing the way it should, and the other stopped eating their only reliable source of protein. One kid has taken bedtime stalling tactics to another level, and the other has a new, less-than-great-influence friend at school. One kid has been wetting the bed, and the other has been acting uncharacteristically timid.
* * *
Media and popular parenting trends have led me to believe that whenever there’s a so-called “problem” with my kids (which is 100% of the time), there’s a solution to that problem (it’s out there somewhere), and it’s my responsibility to find it (otherwise, what kind of parent am I?)
I’ve played the game.
When my baby wasn’t sleeping longer than two hours at a time, I researched ways to get her to sleep for longer stretches. I hung blackout curtains, topped her off with formula, and doubled down on the bedtime routine. When my toddler was having a toilet regression, I tried every potty schedule and reward system in the book. I tormented myself wondering, “what’s wrong with my kid?” When my preschooler was having separation anxiety at drop-off, I scoured the internet for ways I could help him through it. I “filled his cup” with extra attention at home, and consistently used the same quick drop-off routine. Neither effort seemed to help.
The search for answers never stopped.
I found experts on sleep training, toilet training, and early childhood psychology. Blogs that explained how to get compliant behavior today, or promote emotional intelligence in the long run. I read parenting resources that prescribed “three-day plans,” “five easy steps,” and surefire “quick fixes.”
Not once did I find an article or podcast that suggested, “summon some patience,” or “just give it some time.”
Giving our kids time doesn’t generate clicks, nor does it sell parenting courses. It doesn’t fuel insecurities that keep parents searching for answers or buying advice. It’s free of cost, and implies faith in kids’ ability. (Two things that don't fuel our capitalist economy.)
Parenting culture conditioned me to believe my kids’ transgressions were not normal developmental speed bumps, but problems to be solved—and any problem I failed to “solve,” was a public testament to my inadequacy as a mom.
* * *
In my time as a parent, I’ve learned that most of my kids’ issues are—thankfully—short phases, not long-term realities. That, for some problems, the maddening but accurate cure, is simply the passage of time. It’s the one thing I witness daily in my growing children, but a reality that can be hard to accept.
This conclusion, while uncomfortable and most times exhausting, has helped me suspend the urgency I once felt to usher my children through their tough phases. It helped me understand that nothing is actually “wrong” with my kids, and that while I can offer support, my children tend to figure things out on their own watch anyway.
Because, let’s be honest—blackout curtains, reward systems, and drop-off routines might have helped a bit, but the true turning point came when my children simply had enough time to figure things out.
So now, instead of focusing on solutions, I remind myself to trust my child’s capacity, and accept that, while my guidance plays a role in this chapter, growth plays an equally important role, too.
And growth takes time.
There’s no such thing as a quick fix.
* * *
Sixteen inches of snow fell the day my son was born—the fresh, white layer gracefully dampening the usual fuss of cars rushing by.
There’s a sense of surrender on big snow days. A feeling of peace that extends well beyond the visual beauty or hushed surroundings. In a silent truce, I succumb to the sky, and find ease in accepting: nature is in charge. Snow will fall. To fight it is futile. And so, for a day, I soften my grip on control, and submit to what nature has in store.
Time, like nature, marches on. Nothing I say or do can change that. I know this, and yet—often I cling to time, or wish it away. I want to squeeze my children tight, as if the restraint could keep them small, and I impatiently hope that a difficult phase will quickly run its course. The push and pull does nothing but stoke anxiety, and sew suffering into my psyche.
There’s relief in letting go.
* * *
Over the years, I’ve learned to sail the current of time with less protest. Trusting that, sometimes all my children need, is some time to find their way. And that time will forge on, whether I like it or not, so best to just ‘let it do its thing,’ and savor moments rather than grasp onto them or push them away.
I’ve found ease in accepting that time is a steady force. A force that, regardless of circumstance, hurtles forward at its own pace, whether my tender heart is ready or not.
So, as time barrels onward, I find relief in letting go.
I remind myself to embrace: this is the way.
Reluctantly relinquishing control, I take my place in its wake, and accept the ride.