Taking It Slow

I move quickly through life.  I walk fast, with the quintessential New York face on that says, "Get the f*ck out of my way, before I knock your expensive touristy camera out of your hands with my oversized nanny bag."  (It's worth noting that I was a fast walker long before I moved here.  I was notorious for sighing loudly and impatiently when stuck behind large groups of ambling Smith students on the narrow path that led from the Quad to the academic buildings, particularly at 8:55 AM.  You may not care if you're late for your 9 AM class, but I CARE, DAMMIT, SO GET OUT OF MY WAY.)  Even as a kid, I flaunted the rules and scampered across pool decks and made my lesson horses gallop when the instructor wasn't looking.

Now, as a rule, I am very patient when it comes to raising children.  I keep my voice steady when doling out time-outs.  I wait calmly with one eyebrow raised until a "pweeze" is added at the end of a request.  I've spent countless hours doing a slow step/circle/swing/hush maneuver with many a swaddled baby until sleep overcomes them.

But I am not perfect, by any means.  I rush the boys along sometimes, hurrying us through crosswalk signs, getting exasperated by small things, taking over cleaning-up projects that I feel are going too slowly, and the like.  Yesterday, though, I had a kind of mini-breakthrough.  We were walking to a new playground and as is our usual custom, I was briskly pushing the stroller with Bean and Bee inside, and periodically looking over my shoulder at LM, walking half a block behind me.  He runs to catch up at the corners, we hold hands while crossing the street, and then we resume our positions.  This time, though, I looked over my shoulder and I really saw him - I saw his too-long brown hair, hanging into his eyes as he scrutinized the sidewalk under his Keens.  He was humming something to himself and his hands were doing some sort of flappy dance at his sides through the humid air.  I stopped walking.  I waited for him to catch up, the surprise lighting up his eyes as he saw me standing there.  I smiled and silently held out my hand.  Usually, he furiously protests holding my hand.  This time, he smiled back and slipped his grubby paw into mine.  We resumed walking.  Ambling, really.  We missed lots of crosswalks and instead stood in the hot sun, waiting for the light to change.  He asked me questions about boats.  And firemen.  "Firefighters," I corrected, gently.  "Firefighters can be girls too."

At the playground, instead of carrying Bean around in order to keep an eye on the older boys, I put him down on the rubbery play surface.  He was delighted.  We pushed a ball back and forth and I let go of the worries and concerns about what LM and Bee were doing.  If they need me, I'll hear it, I thought wryly to myself.  Twenty minutes of calm playing went by.  "Caywin, can we go home now?" asked LM.  "Sure thing, bud.  You boys hungry?"  Nods of assent.  We packed up, LM in the stroller with Bean this time, because it was Bee's turn to walk.  We meandered home.  Bee kept a tight grip on my hand as we walked at exactly the pace his two-and-a-half-year-old legs set.  The sun was hot, but we didn't mind.  When he asked me questions, I gently asked for a repeat (four, five, six times) until I could understand and answer, instead of doing what I sometimes do which is give a noncommittal "Uh-huh," or "Mmm" when he says something unintelligible.

That afternoon, the house was peaceful.  There were few - if any - time-outs.  LM and I read a couple of chapters from The House at Pooh Corner during nap-time.  I let Bean feed himself cheese and blueberries at snack (a slow, but humorous process) and I watched patiently while LM cleaned up every last Lego piece by himself.  The look of satisfaction and pride on his face when he finished let me know that I was getting it right.  I had slowed down, and it had made a difference.