They started to trickle in as I was paying business bills. First Sebastian, legs speckled with mud, shorts wet, grubby little hands showing me “a big ouchie” he got on his wrist.

They weren’t supposed to be playing with the hose before naptime. I’d seen them out the window though, so I wasn’t surprised. Emmett was taking an early nap (getting up before 5:45am for days on end will do that to a baby), and I wanted to get a few things done, so I figured why not let them play.

It did make things harder on the other end though. I finished writing the check I was working on while Sebastian gingerly took off his flipflops, taking care to baby his hurt wrist. I helped him out of the rest of his soggy clothes and hauled him to the bathtub.

I wanted to hurry. I knew Emmett could wake up. I knew Alec could decide to come in as well. I knew how many more bills I had to pay, and all the fun things I was hoping to get done after that while Emmett was still sleeping. Some photo projects. A memorabilia project. Some laundry-folding with a movie I’d rented and needed to finish.

But instead, I slowed. I felt how slow my movements were, and I pushed back the hurry in my brain, and I enjoyed being with my middle boy as I washed him off and got something for his owie.

These moments are passing too quickly. I cannot grasp them in my hands.

But oh, how I want to.

Not every aspect of them. Not the never-ending needing by all three at once. Nothing has the potential to put me into a frazzle as much as that does. Not the bickering. Not the worse-than-bickering. Not the getting up at night again and again.

Although I think when even those things are gone, I’ll miss them.

I’ll hope I didn’t squander them.

And so I make myself slow down, even when it goes against everything in me.

Alec came in right after I got Sebastian out of the tub. Emmett was still sleeping. I was still trying to pay bills. I wanted to be annoyed at Alec for turning on the hose. I wouldn’t have had to give baths before naps if he hadn’t.

But I didn’t say anything. I kept my voice quiet. I let him happily go get in the bathtub, and even though I was busy I took the time to turn on a Boxcar Children story for him to listen to in the bathroom. I wrote another check. And another. I started this blog post.

I knew Emmett might get up soon, but I also knew if I let the hurry get a hold of me, it would all be downhill from there.

I got Alec out of the tub and made the boys sandwiches for lunch. Fun sandwiches, long and skinny on a piece of hot dog bun. I thought maybe Emmett would continue his hour-long nap and pull a three-hour one like he literally never does, but of course he didn’t. He woke up right after I gave the boys their sandwiches.

And you know what, if I would’ve hurried the boys, I maybe could’ve had five minutes to myself before Emmett got up. But I didn’t regret moving slowly. Enjoying them. Or at the very least not saying things I would have to apologize for later.

I almost always regret hurrying.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, about trying to slow down, to be more mindful of how I respond, of what I say, of what I do.

Of how my children feel about my reactions and my responses. I don’t remember having a mom that hurried. That was unkind about a child being a child. Sometimes I react to one of my boys just being a little boy, and then I think about how I would feel if someone reacted to me being me that way. I think about how I am the most important person in their life, and how it must feel to have an over-reaction about a little thing coming from that person whom they most want to love and like and enjoy them.

Thinking of how they feel helps me slow down. I want the things that matter to them to matter to me.

I am not good at this no-hurrying thing though. I’m actually really terrible at it. Especially when, like I said, all three boys need me at once or one right after the other. Or when they need me, but I also have to get supper on the table. Or switch out the laundry. Or get everyone ready to head out the door.

I get into a frazzle so easily when I feel pulled in too many directions.

Frazzle is a nice way of saying it. A not-so-nice-but-just-as-true way of saying it would be that I get impatient. I get short. I talk unkindly. I hurry. My heart rate goes up. I get hot.

And all to save maybe a few minutes. Or maybe not.

But the longer I mother, and the more I watch my children grow, the more I am determined to do just that thing that is so hard for me. Slow down. Let it take a little longer. Look into their eyes when they’re talking to me. (And they are incessantly talking to me.) Get down on their level and give them a real hug, one that lasts until they pull away.

Just slow down.

It’s hard. It’s really, really hard.

There’s always something else I need to be doing, right there alongside taking care of them.

But I’ve never regretted slowing down. I’ve only regretted hurrying.

So here’s to breathing a bit longer before I speak. Here’s to slowing my movements. Here’s to talking softer, to walking slower, to waiting as a child does something on his own.

Here’s to making the most of this extraordinary season that will never be quite like this again.