apparently

We have lots of practice going slow, taking the time to play with the clay family and the neigh-neighs in this room before tromping downstairs. Having parents sit down and read a book and then again. Hopping off the wall next to the side walk. Taking 40 minutes to come home from school. My first had even more time to go slowly than my second has, but he and I can get up at 7 and get out the door almost late to our first thing at 11, no sweat. Stop the car and throw rocks? Sure. Take the time to let all the layers of clothes go on the child with consent and without tears? Sure.

And thanks to elementary school, we've been learning how to rush. We often end up running to elementary school. The two year old has been offered the choice "Eat that cereal now, or you have to wait until we get back." Cereal bowls have been put away before people were totally done. Shoes have been put on outside with tears. "Look at me, remember you haven't lost TV yet" has been wielded at each transition. Claims of hunger have even been met with statements like "You can try again tomorrow to eat as much as you need when it's time for eating." (This statement is generally made in a quavery voice as though even I can't believe I'm such a mean daddy, at least the first few times, then it's made in a bored quasi-preschool teacher peppy voice.) They have also been met with, "I am sorry you are still hungry, we have to go now." On a few memorable days, toddlers have even been buckled into car-seats by main force.

But we really just don't have a way of going medium. Like, can we just take ten minutes for dressing, fifteen minutes for breakfast, five minutes for shoes/coat/backpack, and just move along from one to the other without any improvisational dancing to music, without any happy running games with the sibling, and for heaven's sake, without any richly detailed drawing? Can we just get ready slowly but steadily?

But we can't. Not yet.

* Incidentally, I learned something useful about whining, at least for my kids, during this learn how to rush program. The first dozen (or was it several dozen times? the unpleasant memories continue to fade faster than the pleasant ones) times my daughter was, umm, forced into running all the way to school, she was whining enough to start to bother me. However, since we were really in a hurry and since I was carrying a heavy toddler, I couldn't really do anything about the complaints except an odd "Mmm" or "My legs hurt a bit too." And then, eventually she stopped whining about it. And I realized I had been expecting her to start up a new boring stressful habit ("running to school with threats of losing TV if we end up being tardy") without whining. Well, shoot, when I have to start some new tedious thing, I tend to complain. Why shouldn't she be able to whine? As long as the whining doesn't bother me, it's not really a problem. And it goes away in the face of habitual reality. If you really do run to school enough, you aren't going to whine about it.

PPS I noticed in retrospect that many of the examples here are from the mornings. Emory Luce Baldwin has a great column about how to make the mornings easier: Here.