It was at the library where I first heard the "five-more-minutes"
line. My first-born son was still a baby who willingly left from one
place to the next, but I tucked away this popular line as I watched
those ahead of me use it as a tool to wrangle unwilling goodbyes.Yet,
when our turn came, and my baby was now an opinionated toddler some time
around the age of 2, those words flowed easily from my mouth. I further
assumed it was time to teach my son all that I knew about time, as if
this were knowledge I should bestow upon him.
Except, I was never
actually coordinated enough as a parent to track those five-minute
warnings. Sometimes, those five minutes were more like one minute if I
was impatient or 10 minutes if I ran into a friend. Even when it was a
precise five minutes, what is one minute – let alone five of them – from
a toddler’s perspective?
Like the many lessons in Montessori
that humble me as a parent, children need something concrete to better
understand something as abstract as time. While those five minutes may
be helpful for me, it’s not yet meaningful information for my son.
Still,
my interest in wanting to teach time was purposeful. I wanted to better
engage him in our day to help with transitions, big and small. It is
only respectful to better communicate those parts of our day that would
be out of the ordinary, whether it be a dentist appointment, haircut, or
work trip for daddy. I even bought one of those bright, busy monthly
calendars for preschoolers where I thought he’d be able to effectively
track the days of the week, month, seasons, time, and weather. I wanted
to slow down our time together to help him learn, but what I saw was a
child rushed to understand my own concept of time, not his own
identification of the day.
Why was I so pressured to rush this
lesson? Perhaps it’s a part of the hurriedness in modern parenting.
Today’s world is busy, fast, scheduled, and structured. We are always
“on,” and it can easily trickle down to our children.
When I took
a step back from my structured perception of time, I was able to see
and appreciate where my children are in their own time. They grasp more
than we assume, and, if anything, their appreciation of time might be
superior to ours as adults. They both know when it’s morning, afternoon,
and evening. They move freely yet intentionally with the natural
rhythms of the day, from sunrise to sunset. It is connected and present.
Honoring the fact that their own rhythm is perfectly age appropriate –
and furthermore worth embracing as a sacred aspect of childhood – is a
perspective that helps me to truly meet them where they are.
We
don’t teach time, we just live it. We experience it. We show it. I
carry the burden of watching the clock as the prepared adult, while my
children remain in tune to the simplicity of day and night, today and
tomorrow. We don’t memorize dates or names of the months,
but we do talk about days, weeks, months, holidays, weather, and seasons
as we live through them, pairing these words with real-life
experiences. I don’t delegate a five-minute countdown when I want to
leave the library, but I might notice the tangible building blocks in
their hands and provide a visual by saying that we will leave once we
put those blocks away.
As for my son, who is now three and
capable of understanding past and future, I find ways to show him, not
tell him, the passage of time through visuals like family trees,
personal timelines, and linear calendars. These concrete visuals will be
an exciting new leap in his quest to find his place in time – an
interest I was able to see by following his own rhythm, not mine.
We
started this lesson in a way where I thought I held the secret to
teaching my kids time. As the adult, it’s easy for us to believe we have
the answers, we know the way, and time is on our side. I realize now
that my children are the guides here. They held the secret to time all
along.
"He has the power to teach himself." -- Maria Montessori