April 10, 1995
From the dawdling dressing routine in the morning to pokey preparations for bed, the unhurried child tests my patience.
“It’s your turn to do the dishes.”
“Sure, mom.” He squirted soap into the sink and turned on the hot water.
I left, sorted clothes, started the wash machine and cleaned a bathroom sink. When I returned, he had washed three forks and wore a soap bubble
“Come on, you still have homework to do.” He nodded and poured water from a tumbler so he could explore the bottom of the sink through its glass bottom.
His daily ritual of putting on his socks was more than I could tolerate. The child would stare at the socks as if he had never seen them before. His whole demeanor said, “I have no idea of what to do with these things.” Eventually he picked up one sock, turned it around three times before resting it on the tip his toe then paused, and stared out the window.
“Hurry up!” I hissed, watching the clock move swiftly toward departure time. He looked up at me vaguely before returning to study the sock on his toe. Ever so slowly he reached down and began moving the sock past the ball of his foot, the arch, the heel, the Achilles tendon and finally – finally the top of the sock reached the calf of his leg.
He felt my glare of impatience. “I’m hurrying,” he protested, and picked up the second sock to repeat the procedure.
I walked out. I didn’t have time for the nervous breakdown I felt coming if I stayed until he had tied his sneakers.
Actions that took me a few seconds took him several minutes as he paused to stare out the window, pick up and put down objects for no obvious reason and have several reflective pauses understood only in his world. I have more rewarding ways to begin my day than to match my personal agenda with that of a dawdler.
I thought I was the only one with a child who marched to the beat of a different, much slower, drummer. I thought only I had a child who daydreamed about the future while the rest of the world rushed to make it happen.
Then I began talking with other parents.
One parent’s only consolation is that both children have to leave for school at the same time. The lingerer does not like the penalties for missing the ride to school. (My laidback teen knew I meant it when I assured he would be riding his bike, whatever the weather, if he missed his ride.) However, while the slow pacer dresses and eats, the sibling does all that plus has time to play Nintendo or watch TV, study a bit and start his daily chores before going outside to wait for his slower brother.
Our dawdling children do offer occasional insights to their world. One friend, exasperated with her child’s progress, asked “Just who is president of your little world anyway? ”
The minor looked up vaguely and murmured, “I don’t know, I didn’t vote for him.” And neither has anyone whose patience is worn thin trying to hurry along a slowmoving child.