This weekend was like any other. Kids’ activities, work, home improvement projects, social gatherings to allow ourselves the joy of connecting with other adult human beings. It was a fluid mix of “I’ll drop off here and meet you there and so-and-so will pick up there.” All the pieces like well worn, slightly beaten up and bent puzzle pieces. That subtle mix of knowing all the pieces should fit exactly as coordinated with that undercurrent of anxiety that we may get to the end and one piece will have gone missing from the tattered, but structurally sound box of collected pieces.
It seems astounding that every fifteen minutes, ten minutes, five minutes, three minutes counts in this interweaving of a family’s schedules. There was the moment when I was getting ready for work; my husband was corralling our son and youngest daughter out the door to pick up our other daughter from a birthday party on the way to bring our son to baseball practice. With thirteen minutes on the clock until the end of the birthday party and twenty-eight minutes until the start of baseball, he pulled out all the ingredients for beef stew to throw into the pressure cooker. Beef, potatoes, carrots, soup mix. I looked at him wild-eyed. “What are you doing??” “Making dinner” . . . with the kids climbing in the car and thirteen minutes until pick-up.
No. Just no. Go.
So. There are countless moments like that. The wind tunnel that funnels us mercilessly in forward motion as time lapses quickly and impatiently.
These are not the moments that keep me fueled and running. No, not these harried punctuated moments of start times and end times. But instead, all the hidden, quiet in between moments. The Margins.
It’s peeling myself out of bed twenty minutes before the slumbering haze of morning lifts to make coffee, shaking off the dizziness of sleep and orienting myself towards the day ahead, and maybe even catching a glimpse of the sunrise. It’s the pain of getting my four-year-old to hockey early on a Saturday morning, only to find myself sitting solo, in silence, with nowhere I’d rather be than on those chilly bleachers, hugging my thermos of caffeine while watching with fireworks of pride as my daughter’s tiny four-year-old body glides across the ice with fierce determination. It’s the forty-five minutes after lunch and before baseball on Sunday that I chose to sit and read and not scramble and trip over household chores while my two eight-year-olds built Legos.
It’s intentionally clearing space on these tightly organized, highly chaotic days with a myriad of demands. It’s finding these margins and allowing myself this time to be present. It was in that brief forty-five minute margin when my eight-year-old son asked me to help him find that one specific blue Lego piece in the sea of Legos. I was startled by my own reaction. My usual irritable, impatient, don’t-you-see-I’m-busy self was cast aside, and to my own shock and astonishment, I put down my book and helped him scour all the piles of tiny Legos. With not even one iota of a mumbling nag of how he needs to keep track of his own things. We searched for a solid handful of minutes. When we came up empty pile after pile, he finally conceded and said, “That’s okay. I’ll just use something else.” He paused pensively, and with sincerity added, “I love you mommy.”
That moment hit me. It confirmed to me that margins matter. By choosing to create space to allow the impossible finding of a Lego to be my way of seeing my son—that moment mattered as much as, if not more than any other moment.
Margins—the clearing of space and time to allow and acknowledge your presence and the presence of others. The time to be thankful that when we strip away all the orchestrated to-do’s, must-do’s, should-do’s, scheduled-do’s, that we see each other. That we see ourselves. That we see our kids. That we see our friends. That we see our partners. That we see those we love. That we appreciate ourselves not for our busyness, our achievements, our productiveness, but for just being me. Being you. Being us.
I’ll keep finding margins because they matter. They help preserve my stability, my sanity, my fuel for the rest of it all.