We're All Just Made for Slow

motherhood // angie warren

We were running errands, us two, and my list was a mile long.

"C'mon Quinny, let's go, go go!" I said, with as much joy as I could muster.

She didn't, go go go. She was, slow slow slow.

"Honey, mama has a lot to do today, take my hand." I reached for her.

She continued to shuffle. Taking her precious time, one foot, ever so slowly, then another. The parking lot wasn't busy, but I could see time draining down an invisible sink.

"Mom," she paused. "My legs aren't made for fast."

And I turned, and I looked at that girl. And I had that sinking mom feeling when you realize, holy crap, I'm old, I've become my mother, and my kid just showed me.

She did, though. In the most innocent, small voice possible, she reminded me. Her legs aren't made for fast. They're made for exploring, for savoring, for living.

And in my rush, in the middle of the life-sucking to do list, I wanted to make it all fast. To get through it all, for, what? What is it, that illustrious prize I'm running for?

An award? 'A ribbon? At the end of the day do they hand out chocolates and silver coins for the busy mom who finished first? What about those who finish, last?

Those who remember even they aren't made, for fast? Whether four, or fourty. What about the ones who come in at the end of the "race", I think those ones, should get the award, the chocolate. Because in my mind, those that go at it slow, with the mind of a child, I think they are the real winners after all.

They're the ones that won that day, they weren't in a race to the end, they were just walking along. Smelling the flowers, flipping the pancakes, reading the bedtime stories - regardless of what else weighed on them, they made time, to make time.

I want to be that. I want to remember I'm not made for fast. The less I slow down, the more I wilt. The less I take time, the faster time goes.

It's not easy, in this go-go-go life. But here's the thing: the bed will always get unmade, the sink will always find itself full, the floor will, inevitably, be covered in dog hair. My babies? They're growing, much too fast for my comfort. I feel it in my gut, and I'm deciding for me, it's not too late. There's till time, all I have to do, is remember: she's made for slow, and so am I.