I wasn't even sure what Little Man was saying. His eyebrows were raised, his hand was pulling mine, and I had to come see something and, "Hurry, Mommy!" See, see the rimbo, Mommy? Oh oh! It's on the chair! And on the train table! You see the rimbo?

He didn't want me to miss the rainbows, the kaleidoscopic kisses that a setting sun casts on living room furniture, on walls, on otherwise crumb-laden floors.


Isn't that the living definition of the work of every child? To hurry us in order to not miss the fading rainbows? We push them, literally, into the world, checking off milestones, counting down hours until bedtime, our voices escalating as we teach them to hurry to put on shoes, get in the car, and hurry through life.


I go through seasons of trying to obliterate the word "hurry" from my parenting vernacular. In those seasons, I realize I must say that word a dozen times a day.

I know this isn't novel but it did give me pause. What are the things to which I am rushing? To work? To the can? To the Dollar Store before it closes? How often am I rushing to the Bible? To open the door for someone? To see those sweet faces that greet me with unabashed glee?


I want to be the first to rush to see the beauty. I want to be changed by the rainbows quickly fading.


I have been a mother now for 1,643 days. In school years, I'm in the ninth grade. By that measuring stick, I should know a few things. But I am grateful for my little teachers that are not loathe to repeat the fundamentals, and who gently but insistently take me by the hand and make sure I don't miss my life.