I Can’t See the Future, But I Can Breathe in the Present

I’ve never really wanted a time machine before. After reading from Rachel at the Ugly Volvo about how kids make it too hard to time travel, it confirmed what I’ve always thought. There is no point in wishing away things in your past, even hard things because they are part of what brought you to where you are now and made you who you are today.

However, lately I’ve been wishing I could see forward in time. I’ve been doubting myself a lot as a mother, as a homeschooler, really in my abilities in nearly any area.

But if I could travel forward and see the end result, I wonder if it would make the daily slog easier. If I knew for sure that the hours I spend arguing with my daugher about why learning is important will succeed. (At almost 9 she’s decided she already knows enough and there isn’t anything else worth knowing).

To know whether we should continue the therapy we’ve been doing with our son and if he will be able to grow up to be a fully functional member of society (Who hopefully stops mouthing his Legos eventually).

There are days when I doubt that my toddler will ever have the desire to give up diapers. (Obviously that last one is fairly inevitable, I hope!)

I know that isn’t how life works. We can only see now, we aren’t given the full picture. I’m sure this is a blessing. If I knew when my children were born that one would have sensory processing difficulties and the other an auto-immune disease, that could have been devastating.

(I’m not sure if knowing in advance that my daughter would barely sleep for her entire first year of life would be helpful or not. There is something to be said for pacing yourself).

Time is an odd construct, the last couple of years seem to have flown by at an alarming rate. I don’t have a time machine, but I can slow things down, if only for a moment. I’ve heard this called mindfulness or living in the present moment, you can call it whatever you like.

For me it’s taking a deep breath and just being.

I do this especially well with this last baby of mine, who at nearly three is no longer really a baby. During the day he mostly terrorizes me and the rest of the family with his toddler whines and antics. But when he asks for hugs and kisses at bedtime, I hold on for an extra second or two. I try to lean in to the sensory aspects of the nightly ritual.

How heavy he feels in my arms, in comparison to just a year ago. The squishiness of his chubby toddler limbs, yet so much more slender than his brother at his age. Even the way he smells, though much of the baby scent is gone, replaced with an ill-defined toddler stink we affectionately refer to as baby funk. The way he says his words, and how he goes through life with his own self-provided, vocalized sound track.

I can still take the same kind of pause with my older kids. It can be harder to focus on and sometimes even difficult to find a pleasant moment, but I’m learning to look for them.

When I overhear their imaginary adventures and see the spark of creativity I’d always hoped was there. When they overcome an academic difficulty or achieve a new physical skill. When they ask to sit in my lap and I remember that as old as they may seem now, they are really only just children yet, at 6 and nearly 9.

I am trying my best to relish the days with my oldest, just days away from being 9. She worries that she will outgrow her well-loved Lambie and I can see the pull on her already to grow up. She disappears into her room to read her books, draw her comics and create her imaginary world through Legos and paper dolls.

She is just entering the difficult no-mans land between childhood and adulthood. I want desperately to hold her back or  walk before her to pave the way. Instead I must settle for walking beside her, ready to provide support or stand back, depending on which is needed.

I may not be able to see the years ahead, no doubt they will be filled with difficulties and joys as today is, though hopefully more of the latter than the former. I know my children will face challenges, ones I may not even be able to comprehend right now. I don’t even know the number of my children’s days, or my own, on this earth. But I do have today, this moment. There are plenty of negatives to be overcome and sometimes just glossed over and best forgotten. But there is so much to lean in to, to absorb to imprint upon my heart. I wish for more photos and I’m terrible at recording their funny stories, and I worry that someday my mind will fail me and I’ll forget these vingettes of our life together. If that time comes, I will have to create new ones.