The day I stopped rushing my child

At some point, adult life begins to sound like one endless command: hurry. Answer faster, get dressed faster, leave faster, eat faster, go to bed faster, keep up, move on, do more. It feels as if the entire day will fall apart if we loosen our grip for even one minute. But sometimes a child who moves more slowly than we do is not falling behind. She is simply seeing what we have forgotten how to notice without rushing past it.

The day I stopped telling my child to hurry was not a small parenting victory. It was the beginning of a completely different way of seeing life. Before that, I lived with a constant internal timer. Every minute had to be used correctly. I had to check a message, reply, arrive, finish, drive, buy, prepare, organize, avoid being late and move on to the next thing. My thoughts and actions were ruled by notifications, phone rings, to-do lists and a schedule with almost no air left inside it.

It went on like this for almost two years. I tried to divide my time, attention and energy, but I still felt as if I was constantly late for my own life. The controller inside me wanted to fit everything into the day: work, home, children, errands, groceries, messages, self-care and perhaps a little perfect order on top of it all. But the day would not stretch. And more and more often, instead of stretching time, I tried to stretch my children.

Six years ago, a little girl entered my life who seemed designed to stop the race. Calm, observant, carefree, the kind of child who knew how to stop and smell the roses - quite literally. When I needed to leave the house, she would suddenly find a glittering “crown” in my bag. When we were already supposed to be somewhere five minutes earlier, she insisted that her stuffed animal had to be buckled into the car seat. When I needed a quick bite, she would begin a long conversation with an elderly woman because the woman reminded her of her grandmother.

When I had only thirty minutes to get to the next place, she asked me to stop the stroller and pet every dog we passed. When the day was scheduled from six in the morning, she wanted to crack the eggs herself and stir them slowly, carefully, with complete attention to the task.

My unhurried child was a gift to my anxious, over-organized nature. But I did not understand that then. When you live in a state of constant hurry, you develop tunnel vision. You see only the next item on the schedule. Anything that cannot be checked off feels like an obstacle. Anything that does not move you toward the goal feels like wasted time.

Every time my daughter pulled me away from the plan, I thought: we do not have time for this. And so the two words she heard from me most often became: “Hurry up.”

I began sentences with them: “Hurry up, we’re late.”

I ended sentences with them: “We’re going to miss everything if you don’t hurry.”

The day began with them: “Hurry and eat your breakfast. Hurry and get dressed.”

The day ended with them: “Hurry and brush your teeth. Hurry and get into bed.”

Those words almost never made her move faster. But I kept saying them anyway. Perhaps even more often than “I love you.”

The truth can be painful. But sometimes it is also what heals us. It brings us closer to the kind of parent we want to be, even if first it forces us to see ourselves from an angle that is not flattering.

Then one day, everything changed. We were picking up my older daughter from kindergarten and getting out of the car. The little one was not moving as quickly as her sister wanted. My older daughter crossed her arms, sighed with irritation and said, “You are so slow.”

In that moment, I saw myself in her. And it hurt.

I suddenly understood: I was the one who had been rushing, pushing, pressing and denying a small child the right simply to enjoy life. I saw clearly how my constant hurry was affecting not only my younger daughter, but my older one too. She was already learning my tone. My impatience. My habit of treating slowness as a flaw.

My voice trembled, but I looked into my younger daughter’s eyes and said, “I am so sorry I keep making you rush. I love that you take your time. I want to learn to be more like you.”

Both of my daughters looked surprised by this confession. But my younger child’s face lit up with something like relief. As if she had finally been seen not as an obstacle, but as a person.

“I promise I will be more patient,” I said, and I hugged my curly-haired girl, who was glowing because her mother had made her that promise.

Removing the word “hurry” from my vocabulary was easier than I expected. What was much harder was learning to wait. To wait while she put on her shoes herself. To wait while she finished looking at a ladybug. To wait while she completed an important child-sized conversation. To help us both, I started giving her more time to get ready whenever we had somewhere to go. But sometimes we were still late. So I told myself: perhaps I will be a little late for just these few years, while she is still small. And perhaps that is not the worst price to pay.

When we walked or went to the store, I let her set the pace. If she stopped to look at something on the ground, I tried not to look at the clock. I pushed the list of tasks out of my mind and simply watched her.

And suddenly I began to see what I had missed before. How her face changed when she was fascinated by something. How her eyes narrowed when she smiled. The tiny marks on her hands. How other people softened when she stopped to speak to them. How carefully she studied insects, flowers, stones, dogs, clouds and shop windows.

She was an observer. And children who know how to observe are rare and beautiful gifts in a world that keeps demanding acceleration. That was when I finally understood: she was a gift to my exhausted, racing soul.

I made a promise to slow down. And even now, I still have to make an effort to keep it. Life has not become less busy. There are not fewer things to do. The calendar has not turned into a blank page. But my younger daughter keeps reminding me why I must keep trying.

One day on vacation, the two of us rode our bikes to get shaved ice. After buying her treat, she sat down at a picnic table and looked at the icy tower in her hand as if it were a work of art. Suddenly, worry crossed her face.

“Do I have to hurry, Mama?” she asked.

I could have cried. Perhaps the scars of a hurried life do not disappear all at once. Perhaps a child needs time to believe that things can now be different.

She looked at me, trying to understand whether she had to rush again. And I knew I had a choice. I could sit there and grieve all the times I had pushed her. Or I could choose the present day - the day in which I was already trying to be different.

I chose today.

“Take your time, sweetheart. Take all the time you need,” I said softly.

Her face immediately brightened. Her shoulders relaxed. And we sat side by side, talking about important things - the kind of things six-year-olds who play imaginary ukulele talk about. There were even moments when we simply sat in silence, smiling at each other and listening to the sounds around us.

I thought she would eat every last drop of her shaved ice. But near the end, she held out a spoonful of sweet ice crystals to me.

“I saved the last bite for you, Mama,” she said proudly.

As I let those tiny crystals of kindness melt in my mouth, I understood that I had just received the deal of a lifetime.

I had given my child a little time. In return, she had given me her last spoonful and reminded me that life tastes sweeter, and love comes more easily, when we stop racing through it so desperately.

And now, whether it is
eating shaved ice;
picking flowers;
buckling a seat belt;
cracking eggs;
searching for seashells;
watching ladybugs;
or simply taking a walk.

I no longer want to say, “We don’t have time for this.” Because what that really means is: “We don’t have time to live.”

Stopping to notice the simple joys of everyday life is not a luxury and not a weakness. It is the only way to be truly present in our own lives. And perhaps one of the most important gifts we can give our children is not a perfect schedule, but an adult beside them who, at least sometimes, knows how not to hurry.