When the To-Do List Can Wait

Our home is a hive of activity these days. Many of you can relate, I’m sure.

The alarm sounds. Coffee. Quiet time. Exercise. Kids up. Breakfast. Work. School. Appointments. Diapers. Lunch. Naps. Writing. Meetings. Cleaning. Laundry. Homework. Dinner. Errands. Community investment. Emails. Social media. Whining. Snuggles. Sibling rivalry. School drama. Reading. Bedtime. Repeat.

Some days feel productive as I race through my to-do list, crossing off each item with fury and delight. (And if I complete a task that’s not on my list, I write it down and cross it out because I’m that person.) Other days, the FedEx guy finds me at the door with greasy hair and snot-covered workout gear. It’s as glamorous as it sounds. Don’t be jealous.

The weather is warmer now and the chirping birds and quiet bunnies remind me of our homeschool days, specifically our unit on butterflies. Despite the misleading title, that lesson didn’t start with a full grown Painted Lady. The slow process began weeks before when we ordered tiny caterpillars online, fed and nurtured them, took notes, and hoped for a few live insects by spring. (Side note: When I first typed ‘nurtured’, it read ‘neutered’. Can you imagine? Carry on.)

We discussed the four stages and watched as those caterpillars moved from cocoons to struggling butterflies and finally to flight outside. (Unfortunately, the eggs cannot be mailed). The gradual transformation was fascinating.

My six year old son, Jude, thrived in this unit. He marveled at the growing larvae and was entranced by the metallic cocoons hanging from their netted home. He drew pictures and wrote daily in his journal. But when his younger brother Sam teetered toward him, arms outstretched like Frankenstein, Jude set down his insect notes and welcomed the pause. He stepped away from his favorite unit to play with his brother. There was no sighing or eye rolling, even as Sam’s sticky hands grabbed his skinned knees, inviting him to play.

In my frustration, I often had to pry Sam from Jude, guiding my curious tot away from the table so my student could focus on his assignment. But really, I wanted to be done with school so I could keep moving forward with my day.

Then the familiar mental battle would begin,

“You shouldn’t wish away this interruption. It’s part of life.

[But I have so much to do. Have you seen The List?]

You shouldn’t be so focused on lists and ‘getting it all done’.

[But we need to get through this unit.]

Relax, connecting with your kids is more important in this moment.

[Aack! Shut up already. I don’t have time for this!]

Looking back, I see now that I was a student, too–learning (and often failing) to be okay with the morning routine taking longer than planned. With time and grace, I S L O W L Y began to accept the delays, to hold those chubby toddler hands rather than resent the tugs on my time. The only way to master these important life skills is to be given opportunities to practice them but for so long I had resisted more than I had received.

Jude’s example taught me patience as I watched him leave the table several times to accept a hug from his younger brother who insisted we pay attention to his antics. Jude showed me how to welcome the unplanned when he reached down to squeeze Sam’s cheeks, tickled him, and led him to his favorite toy. His sweet spirit gave me permission to accept that sometimes my work just needed to wait.

Metamorphosis: egg, caterpillar, chrysalis, butterfly.

I often feel more like a chrysalis—trapped inside the hard shell of expectations and agendas, not quite ready to fully open up and celebrate the moments that look like interruptions. Not yet willing to welcome the *perceived* intrusions.

These days, my two little men have different school teachers, schedules, and units. They are discovering new and valuable lessons away from our weathered table. Meanwhile, I continue to loosen my grip on The Daily Agenda and to graciously embrace what often feels disruptive to my carefully crafted plans.

And I’m grateful for two growing boys who continue to show me how.