Making the Most of the Day

"It's not the years in your life that count. It's the life in your years." -Abraham Lincoln

This summer, I find myself saying, "I could have used one more day" a lot. To save days off for a two-week trip My Director and I are taking to Europe later this month, I can't afford to extend weekend trips by taking off a Friday or Monday, like I normally would. This past weekend, for example, we made the drive to see My Director's brother and his wife in Vermont. Normally I would have taken Friday or Monday off, not only to extend the trip but to ease the burden of the six-hour drive as well. For the third time this summer, I didn't. Or couldn't. Once again this prompted my, "I could have used one more day." (All of this is a nice problem to have, I know.)

The three of us, rocking the canoe.

We are also not taking Peanut to Europe with us. This is a trip to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary. European vacations are not for six year-olds, but that's a topic for another post. So we're trying to jam in as much Peanut quality time as we can when we're all together. With that in mind. I found myself trying to relax by the lake on Saturday, sitting in my beach chair and reading my book. Peanut, my brother-in-law, and I had just returned from a fun one-hour canoe trip around the lake. (See: Jamming in fun memories with Peanut before we desert her with my sister for two weeks.) That's when I noticed Peanut had taken my football out of the beach bag.

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Hope Floats

"Where there is charity and wisdom, there is neither fear nor ignorance." -St. Francis of Assisi (My dad's favorite saint.)

It was something so small, so silly, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Regardless, I don't think I've ever felt more helpless as a parent. Even when she's sick, there's always medicine, orange juice, and a good cuddle on the couch with Doc McStuffins on the television all day. A scrape on the knee gets a Band-Aid and a kiss. Then there are those times when she's upset, but she's most likely tired or just being ridiculous. So you listen to her frustration but ultimately, and kindly, tell her to get over it.

But what do you do when there is nothing you can do?

As Peanut and I left daycare one day recently, I was in more of a rush than usual thanks to traffic, putting me way behind on my evening checklist. Despite being forced to wait an extra 20 minutes for me; despite the fact that she was one of just two children in her class still waiting to be picked up, Peanut was no worse for the wear. After all, she had balloons. Two. A yellow one and an orange one. So I loaded my arms with all of her artwork, homework, trinkets, and tools and we headed out.

"Do you want me to carry your balloons so we don't lose them?" I asked. "You can carry your lunchbox for me." Because this is the stuff blog posts are made of, she, of course, answered "no thank you."

And what do you think happens next?

Reenactment:
No balloons were intentionally harmed
during the making of this blog post

Halfway to the car, she let them go. Even though I warned her to hold on to them. Now I know what you're thinking, and no I did not tie them to her wrist like a good parent would. Read: in more of a rush than usual. Still, parenting fail.

I made a feeble attempt to catch them. But my arms were, as you may remember, full. And my vertical leap is, as you may imagine, lacking. Peanut was devastated. Rightfully so. I can still see the look of horror and heartbreak on her face as she helplessly watched those balloons float away to destroy the ecosystem of some far-away land. She herself gave her own feeble jump in desperation. Arms stretched to the heavens, tears streaming down her now sobbing face. Her screams echoing through the near-empty parking lot.

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Turning Off and Tuning In

I sat in a pizza place one Sunday evening, waiting for my order to be ready. On the other side of the restaurant, I spotted a dad and his young son. The boy couldn’t have been more than two or three years-old. I assume they were waiting for their dinner as well. The little boy was cute and curious. He didn't appear to be doing anything you might consider out of control. Yet all I heard was the dad correcting him, telling him to sit properly, to be quiet. To each his own, I thought. He wants to be stern with his kid, that's his choice. But every time this dad spoke to his son, he had to tear his eyes away from his iPhone. When he was finished parenting, he would quickly glance back down.

A few days before that, I was standing in line at CVS, waiting to pay. I saw another dad engrossed in his iPhone as his two children – a boy and a girl - stood about five feet away from him eating a pack of M&M’s. We've all been there. Throw a snack at them to keep them quiet. But I heard the little girl, who was maybe four, call her dad’s name. Her attempt to get his attention fell on deaf ears. Whatever had filled his inbox was much more important.

I don’t like to judge other parents. I'd rather give everyone the benefit of the doubt. What works for you might not necessarily work for me. But in all honestly, it bothered me so much because that used to be me. I was that guy. These dads - and me before them - are just a few in a sea of distracted parents who are missing opportunities to engage and enlighten their children. Knowing I was that guy, watching other parents do it is heartbreaking and frustrating.

They're all off

About a month ago, My Director and I talked about going hands-free around Peanut. Especially during those two precious hours we have with her every night during the week. Turn off our phones. No laptop or iPad. Shortly after we talked about it, almost serendipitously, we found the blog of Hands Free Mama. She's started a movement, urging parents to tune out the technology and tune in to their children. We were on board after reading this post, where she lists the ways you can miss a childhood. The one that really hit home for me: checking your blackberry at a red light while your child sits in the backseat watching you.

What going hands free has done, more important than actually talking to Peanut, is force us to listen to her. When we're done listening, we respond. We have a conversation. That email, that game of Angry Birds, that tweet can wait. As hard as it has been for me to admit, the world can wait for my witty retort to someone's status update. It’s so trivial compared to what Peanut is saying, asking, wondering.

Technology is not worth interrupting my time with Peanut. She deserves more than two hours. But that’s all she gets right now; so she's going to get my undivided attention. If you include commuting and wireless communication, work gets me for at least twelve hours a day. That’s plenty. Everything can wait until Peanut is tucked away in bed.

I must admit, it's not easy. But at the same time, it's wonderfully liberating. Eye-opening, even. And Peanut notices. She's happy. Content. She is getting what she deserves: all of us.

I'd be lying if I didn't admit there are slip-ups. I’m just sharing what I consider a revelation. An awakening from a tech junkie who can very well become consumed with Facebook, Twitter, email, and blogging. But not at the expense of my daughter. Not at the expense of what she considers important. Not anymore. What she wants to do, and talk about, is what matters most. Even if she's vegging out on the couch watching Doc McStuffins after school, I am right there with her. Singing, commenting, engaging. The laptop safely tucked away, no longer on my lap.

One day Peanut will look back at her childhood. She’ll remember the big things, of course. And she’ll remember some little things as well. I just want to make sure she remembers her dad was watching her and not consumed by the glow of a little screen.

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Making Up For Lost Time

“The best inheritance a parent can give his children is a few minutes of his time each day.” - O. A. Battista

Sometimes the smallest thing will stop you in your tracks. And break your heart.

Another day started way too early as my alarm sounded at 4:24 in the morning. I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled downstairs, towel and razor in hand. I shower downstairs to ensure I don't wake everyone up.

There it was: frozen in time

Then, I saw it. Sitting there on one of the stools under the counter. One of the Peanut's books.

And that's when it hit me. Smacked me in the face, in fact.

Yesterday evening the Peanut ran into the kitchen holding that book. Did she want me to read it? No. She wanted to show me something in it. It's a book with a different dog on each page, and when you turn the pages each different dog takes on the same big googily eyes. She wanted to show me which one looks like Luna.

But I was too busy. To my defense, I really was very busy. I had to delay getting dinner started because Luna once again crapped in the living room. So I was annoyed and busy. 

And it grosses me out to have to clean up dog poop and cook a meal. The hand washing knows no end.

Standing there in the kitchen ten hours later, guilt consumed me. I remembered telling the Peanut to please wait. I wasn't nasty. I nicely explained to her that because Luna had an accident, I couldn't look right now. But I will in a minute.

This is the daily struggle we as working parents endure. Sometimes I stop doing what I'm doing and pay attention to her. If not, I will follow up in a minute, when I have a minute. (But who ever has a minute?)

That minute never came. I felt devastated. I felt I had disappointed her. I showered, soaked in sorrow. 

When I came home tonight to start dinner, I saw that book again. Forgotten again. By me. By the Peanut. Now 24 hours later, it still sat on that same stool.

I hadn't even taken my bag off my shoulder when I announced to her, "You know what I'd like you to do right now? May you show me what you wanted to show me in this puppy book?"

She immediately ran in from the playroom, as if no time had passed. She grabbed the book, turned the pages, and showed me. 

"This one is Luna:"

This is what she wanted to show me

Then she turned a few pages and said, "And this one is me:"

Peanut's the one with the pink bow

Maybe she didn't think anything of it. Maybe she did. Either way, I felt like in that one little moment, I saved her a trip to the therapist. I righted a wrong. 

And in that moment, we both felt better. All it took was a little time.

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