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"Just a few more minutes . . . please, Mommy!"
Although my own children were grown, I found
myself turning instinctively in the direction of the
little voice. He was trailing after his mother,
looking reluctantly over his shoulder at a display of
remote-control toys in the large department store.
He couldn't have been more than four years old.
With chubby cheeks and wispy blond hair going in
several directions, he trotted behind his mother down
the main aisle of the department store. His boots
caught my eye. They were green. Really green.
Bright, shiny, Kermit-the-Frog green. Obviously new
and a little too big, the boots stopped just below his
knees, leaving a hint of dimpled legs disappearing
into rumpled shorts. Perfect boots for the rainy
transition from summer to fall.
He stopped abruptly at a display of full-length
mirrors, lifting one foot at a time, grinning and
admiring his boots until his mother called for him to
catch up to her. Dressed in a suit, heels clicking on
the tile floor, she was tossing items into her cart as
she and her son made their way to the checkout lanes
at the front of the store.
I smiled at the picture he made clumping noisily
behind his mother. I found myself wondering if she
had just picked him up from daycare after a busy day
in an office somewhere. I sighed as I selected an
item and put it in my own cart. My days of trying to
juggle a full-time job and two small children had been
busy, sometimes even hectic, but I missed them.
Finishing my own shopping, I forgot about the
little boy and his mother until I stepped outside the
store. There a panorama unfolded before me. The rain
had slowed to a drizzle, perforating the numerous
puddles in the parking lot. Several mothers with
their small children were hurrying in and out of the
department store. The children were, of course,
making beelines to the puddles that dotted their way
from the cars to the store's entrance. The mothers
were right behind them, scolding.
"Get away from that puddle!
"You'll ruin your shoes!"
"What's the matter with you? Are you deaf? I
said, GET OUT OF THAT PUDDLE!"
And so it continued. The children were being
pulled away from the puddles and hurried along. All
except for one . . . the little green-booted boy.
He and his mother were not rushing anywhere. The
boy was happily splashing away in the largest puddle
in the parking lot, oblivious to the rain and to the
people coming and going. His wispy hair was plastered
to his head and a huge smile was plastered on his
face. And his mother? She put up her umbrella,
adjusted her packages and waited. Not scolding, not
rushing. Just watching.
As she fished her car keys out of her purse, the
boy, hearing the familiar jingling, paused in
mid-splash and looked up.
"Just a few more minutes? Please, Mommy?" he
begged.
She hesitated, and then she smiled at him.
"Okay!" she responded and adjusted her packages
again.
By the time I got to my car, loaded my packages
and was ready to ease out of my parking space, the
green-booted boy and his mother were walking toward
their car, smiling and talking.
How many times had my own children begged for
"just a few more minutes"? Had I smiled and waited
like the mother of the green-booted boy? Or had I
scolded?
Just a few more minutes of giggling and splashing
in the bathtub. So what if bedtime got pushed back a
little?
Just a few more minutes of rocking a sleepy
toddler. So what if toys were strewn around the room,
littering the floor?
Just a few more minutes of life with them before
they were grown and gone. So what if my career goals
didn't fit my original timeline?
Just a few more minutes. Everything I have read
about time management for working mothers can be
summed up in one picture. The picture of that young
mother standing under her umbrella, arms full of
packages, smiling at a wet, green-booted boy who had
asked her the universal time-management question for
working mothers everywhere, "Just a few more minutes?"
______________________________
Reprinted by permission of Sara Lynn
Henderson (c) 2001 from Chicken Soup for the Soul
Celebrates Mothers by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen and Sharon J.
Wohlmuth. |
