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Time Broker
As I drove away from MJ's summer camp last week, I had already broken the two hours of toddler-free time I had before me into efficient, 20-minute chunks. Twenty minutes at the grocery store, where I would feed Little L her bottle with one hand while steering my cart with the other. Twenty minutes at home to give the baby a snack and then clean her bottles. Twenty minutes to change her diaper and put her down for her nap and put the dishes away. Twenty minutes to fold the laundry.
Twenty minutes to resolve an insurance mix-up with the pediatrician. Twenty minutes to check my e-mail, which won't be long enough to actually respond to any e-mails, as it now takes my brain twice as long to process messages as it does to read them. (If I were to have a third child, I'm sure it would take three times as long.)
Twenty minutes to run about the house, quickly tossing away Happy Meal toys and address labels that had become makeshift "boo-boo band aids" for MJ before we had left that morning. (Clandestine toy purging has replaced roaming the aisles at Barnes & Noble with a latte as one of my favorite "me" time activities.)
Twenty minutes to plan ahead for MJ's return: Are any kitchen knives within reach? Are all sunglasses on a high shelf where they won't be snapped in two when I'm not looking? Do I have food for her lunch? And then, before I realize it: Twenty minutes to rouse Little L, tuck her into her car seat and head back out to pick up her sister ... an occasion for which I will be, as always, 10 to 15 minutes late.
Nothing is more important than time, and I always need just 20 more minutes of it.
"Give me 20 minutes to finish this up," I'll say. Or, "I will give you $50 if you'll give me just 20 more minutes. I promise." Usually I'm kidding about that last one.
I find myself using a great deal of the precious commodity, in fact, just planning ways I can steal more of it ... steal, because that's how it feels to me. In the workday life of our young family, time taken for one activity is time stolen from another's. As I pilfer a bit of it to write this column, Randy is watching the girls while waiting for 20 more minutes to finish some work from earlier in the day. MJ is 20 minutes late for her bedtime. Little L is probably 20 minutes late for a diaper change. The wash is 20 minutes late for the dryer. When I finish writing, my agenda will rotate to the end of the line and everyone else's will move up. We function like an assembly line of daily tasks, with hugs, kisses, silly dancing and great peels of laughter moving it along, until the promise of the weekend arrives -- when we can all simultaneously do one activity together. (We hope.)
A common complaint among many mothers I know is that, to the outside world, being at home with children seems like interminable hours of nothingness. Maybe even long, luxurious hours of nothingness spent watching Jerry Springer and eating bon bons. "What do you do all day long?" we are asked. It's the sort of question that rolls around one's head for a bit, hoping to pick up even the smallest speck of lint that would help to accurately describe how we spend our time.
The truth is the days are not so much long hours as they are short minutes, a succession of necessary bursts of action. They are quick and eventful, though if you were to ask me, at the end of one, what I had filled those minutes with, I would likely to look at you blankly as a cascade of activities -- none of them very striking but all of them seemingly quite important, quite useful to the survival of the human race -- washed through my mind. I'm not a surgeon, it's true; but I am responsible for keeping my kids alive during the day. I'm not a chef; but I put food before them ... even if they refuse to eat it. I'm not Google; but judging by the number of times I answer the question "Why?" each day, I really should be getting a piece of that pie.
I'm not a teacher. But I sure feel like one. I don't work. But it sure feels that way. What do I do all day? I'm a mother, but practically speaking, I'm an importer/exporter of time. I wheel and deal it. I buy and sell it. I give and take it. I place a value on it, determine which member of my family should get it when and for what reason. I make it, I shape it, I cheer it on and wave as it goes by. I look forward to seeing it and miss it terribly when it's gone, but I use its remnants responsibly -- my time is always green -- recycling it into memories and baby books spilling over with ticket stubs and photographs and first curls. I wish for more, ever more ... great gallons of time well spent. And most days, most every day with this bunch of mine, I get just that. Time well spent.
Still, I'd really love 20 more minutes to finish my lunch, if you could spare it. I'll give you $50 bucks, I promise.
Beth appears every Tuesday on TriangleMom2Mom. Read more about Beth at her blog MotherBunker.
Beth McNichol
Beth is a TriangleMom2Mom featured blogger, appearing every Tuesday.
Beth is a freelance writer, former magazine editor and a past media relations director for UNC athletics. She wrote high-brow pieces about air-guitar competitions and the true color of Carolina blue before entering the super-chic life of stay-at-home mom to two girls: MJ, 3; and Little L, 10 months. Beth is married to a nice boy from Toronto, and they are teaching their children how to say “sorry” in both English and Canadian. She is a graduate of UNC and Northwestern and is a native of West Virginia, the first state to observe Mother’s Day. She now resides on the Chapel Hill side of Durham. If you ask her for juice one more time she will scream.
As I drove away from MJ's summer camp last week, I had already broken the two hours of toddler-free time I had before me into efficient, 20-minute chunks. Twenty minutes at the grocery store, where I would feed Little L her bottle with one hand while steering my cart with the other. Twenty minutes at home to give the baby a snack and then clean her bottles. Twenty minutes to change her diaper and put her down for her nap and put the dishes away. Twenty minutes to fold the laundry.
Twenty minutes to resolve an insurance mix-up with the pediatrician. Twenty minutes to check my e-mail, which won't be long enough to actually respond to any e-mails, as it now takes my brain twice as long to process messages as it does to read them. (If I were to have a third child, I'm sure it would take three times as long.)
Twenty minutes to run about the house, quickly tossing away Happy Meal toys and address labels that had become makeshift "boo-boo band aids" for MJ before we had left that morning. (Clandestine toy purging has replaced roaming the aisles at Barnes & Noble with a latte as one of my favorite "me" time activities.)
Twenty minutes to plan ahead for MJ's return: Are any kitchen knives within reach? Are all sunglasses on a high shelf where they won't be snapped in two when I'm not looking? Do I have food for her lunch? And then, before I realize it: Twenty minutes to rouse Little L, tuck her into her car seat and head back out to pick up her sister ... an occasion for which I will be, as always, 10 to 15 minutes late.
Nothing is more important than time, and I always need just 20 more minutes of it.
"Give me 20 minutes to finish this up," I'll say. Or, "I will give you $50 if you'll give me just 20 more minutes. I promise." Usually I'm kidding about that last one.
I find myself using a great deal of the precious commodity, in fact, just planning ways I can steal more of it ... steal, because that's how it feels to me. In the workday life of our young family, time taken for one activity is time stolen from another's. As I pilfer a bit of it to write this column, Randy is watching the girls while waiting for 20 more minutes to finish some work from earlier in the day. MJ is 20 minutes late for her bedtime. Little L is probably 20 minutes late for a diaper change. The wash is 20 minutes late for the dryer. When I finish writing, my agenda will rotate to the end of the line and everyone else's will move up. We function like an assembly line of daily tasks, with hugs, kisses, silly dancing and great peels of laughter moving it along, until the promise of the weekend arrives -- when we can all simultaneously do one activity together. (We hope.)
A common complaint among many mothers I know is that, to the outside world, being at home with children seems like interminable hours of nothingness. Maybe even long, luxurious hours of nothingness spent watching Jerry Springer and eating bon bons. "What do you do all day long?" we are asked. It's the sort of question that rolls around one's head for a bit, hoping to pick up even the smallest speck of lint that would help to accurately describe how we spend our time.
The truth is the days are not so much long hours as they are short minutes, a succession of necessary bursts of action. They are quick and eventful, though if you were to ask me, at the end of one, what I had filled those minutes with, I would likely to look at you blankly as a cascade of activities -- none of them very striking but all of them seemingly quite important, quite useful to the survival of the human race -- washed through my mind. I'm not a surgeon, it's true; but I am responsible for keeping my kids alive during the day. I'm not a chef; but I put food before them ... even if they refuse to eat it. I'm not Google; but judging by the number of times I answer the question "Why?" each day, I really should be getting a piece of that pie.
I'm not a teacher. But I sure feel like one. I don't work. But it sure feels that way. What do I do all day? I'm a mother, but practically speaking, I'm an importer/exporter of time. I wheel and deal it. I buy and sell it. I give and take it. I place a value on it, determine which member of my family should get it when and for what reason. I make it, I shape it, I cheer it on and wave as it goes by. I look forward to seeing it and miss it terribly when it's gone, but I use its remnants responsibly -- my time is always green -- recycling it into memories and baby books spilling over with ticket stubs and photographs and first curls. I wish for more, ever more ... great gallons of time well spent. And most days, most every day with this bunch of mine, I get just that. Time well spent.
Still, I'd really love 20 more minutes to finish my lunch, if you could spare it. I'll give you $50 bucks, I promise.
Beth appears every Tuesday on TriangleMom2Mom. Read more about Beth at her blog MotherBunker.
Beth McNichol
Beth is a TriangleMom2Mom featured blogger, appearing every Tuesday.
Beth is a freelance writer, former magazine editor and a past media relations director for UNC athletics. She wrote high-brow pieces about air-guitar competitions and the true color of Carolina blue before entering the super-chic life of stay-at-home mom to two girls: MJ, 3; and Little L, 10 months. Beth is married to a nice boy from Toronto, and they are teaching their children how to say “sorry” in both English and Canadian. She is a graduate of UNC and Northwestern and is a native of West Virginia, the first state to observe Mother’s Day. She now resides on the Chapel Hill side of Durham. If you ask her for juice one more time she will scream.
Comments
Beautiful!
I loved this! Perfectly said, Beth. I'm printing it for my husband.
Loved this post!
Beth - you inspired me to purge toys/crafts last night and it is totally a cathartic experience. just sat in there afterwards to admire my work.