Time Misses Management
As a mom of seven kids, I thought I had time management all figured out.
I could awaken our household from a dead snooze, get them clothed, fed breakfast, teeth brushed, and in the car ready for the day’s outings, with all necessary backpacks, water bottles, and electronic gadgetry to arrive on time to any given appointment—give or take a sock. My formula was simple: start with ten minutes per child per destination, add six and a half minutes for each sibling interaction (“That’s mine!” “Where’s my shoes?” “I have no pants!”), add eleven minutes for every female old enough to use a flatiron, and multiply it all by the number of kids under age six who have a bladder. Using this equation, I could herd my children from our front door, past the ATM, and across town with seconds to spare.
And yet, 18 years passed, and I hardly noticed.
Sure, we celebrated birthdays, and kept buying bigger shoes. Tricycles became roller blades, skateboards, and bicycles. Baby dolls were replaced with mirrors, lip gloss, and blingy earrings. During the holidays we marveled with the grandparents at how much taller, smarter, teen-er the kids had become. I stopped shopping at Gymboree and got dragged into Abercrombie. Pee-wee baseball and ballet classes morphed into basketball tournaments and late-night movies with friends.
Somehow, I thought our fast-paced, van-packed world of tiny people jockeying for their place at the dinner table would continue forever.
I was wrong.
The day our oldest daughter “turned the tassel” on her graduation cap it hit me. Her four years of high school had disappeared like a pepperoni pizza in the care of her five brothers. Every day of her 18 years had brought miniscule change, and I hadn’t seen it.
When I think back, I remember early efforts to slow the progression of time. When my twin boys were toddlers, I devised a plan to call a screeching halt to their rapid growth. One night, as I dressed them for bed, it occurred to me that they could not outgrow their footy-pajamas by morning. So, I reasoned, if I dressed them in the same pjs every night, they’d never grow up! At first it was easy. Their pajamas fit comfortably, and even had room to spare. But within a few weeks, the twins’ shoulders were slumping, and they struggled to stand upright when dressed for bed. My heart sank the night my husband walked in carrying the scissors.
“Honey, don’t do it,” I pleaded.
“Do you want them to develop back problems?” he asked.
Through tears, I had to admit he was right. My efforts were not keeping my children from growing up. They not only needed to be free to mature, but it was healthier for them to do so. As he cut the feet off my twins’ pajamas, he severed all hope that I could preserve time and keep our children young.
When I was 29, I thought if I ignored time, it would have to stop. I informed my husband, “From now on, every birthday will be my 29th.” So for the next several years we celebrated my 29th birthday again and again. Finally, when I was 34, my oldest son piped up as we brought out my birthday cake. “I know how old mom is.” At first, I wondered if he really knew. Had he asked a grandparent or read my driver’s license? Then he went on, “I know she’s 30, because last year she was 29.” So he was off by a few years, but he had the right idea.
Like it or not, we all age one year at a time.
After the birth of each child, my mom would say to me, “Enjoy them while their little, because it goes so fast.” In my sleep-deprived state, I wondered if “it” referred to my waist-line or my mental stability. Now I realize she was talking about their childhood. My babies seemed to vanish like a drawing on an Etch-a-sketch. There one minute.
Gone the next.
There is comfort in knowing that God is in charge of time. The psalmist writes, “All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be” (Psalm 139:16 NIV). Since the beginning of time, God has orchestrated our days. My children are not meant to stay young and at my side, but to grow into healthy functioning adults for the purposes God has planned. While time may sometimes elude me, I can be certain God has sculpted every moment for all of us and not a single one escapes his notice.
It’s been almost three years since my youngest graduated from high school. Mostly, our seven live in the big world beyond our front door, although we have a basement dweller from time-to-time. We’ve also added some amazing spouses and grandchildren to the mix. So, while we may be “empty-nesters” there’s never a dull moment.
Two of our grandchildren live nearby and visit regularly. One asked me the other day, “Grandma, how old are you?”
I debated about what to say (classic dilemma). She’d asked me that a couple of months before and I’d said, “29.” (Some habits die hard). She was like, “My dad is 29.”
Okay. That didn’t work.
So, she asked me again last week and I decided to be more honest. “I don’t want to say.”
“It’s okay, Grandma. I can count to a 100.”
Okay. Maybe I should just tell her how old I am.
Truth is, it really doesn’t matter my age. Whether I’m 29 or 100 (or somewhere in between), I’ve been given today. Psalms says, “Today is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it” (Psa. 118:24 ESV). As time passes, I realize the need to cherish time, spend it wisely, make the most of every moment. I can’t go back and relive yesterday and tomorrow isn’t promised. The only time I have is the minute I am living right now. Today.
I once thought I could master time. I thought I could speed it up and slow it down; save it, stop it, or spend it at my discretion. I now realize that time marches on without permission from me. Time is a gift, meant to be spent as fast as it is given; it is to be cherished, savored, and lived . . . one precious second at a time.
Jen♡
