“Twenty minutes each. I’ll set the timer. We’ll go in birth order, youngest first. Be thinking about what you want to do together.”
Once upon a time I had a conversation with a friend who mentioned that while my newsletter blast of blog posts that reach “the masses” are nice and all, it’s pretty special to get a piece of my time dedicated soul-ly and solely to her.
Really? You want some of me just for yourself? I was honored.
This was followed by a worrisome thought of, “I wonder how many people want a small piece of my time all to themselves? I wonder how many pieces of my time I have to give?”
She gently suggested that it was possible that I might get something out of the time I spend with others. That it might not just be a pouring out, but also a filling up. “I mean, it’s quite possible you might actually like it,” she said.
This spurred some texts and emails and phone calls where I asked friends, “Hey, how many people are in your inner circle? How many people to do you give your time away to on a regular basis?”
And their answers spurred some list-making of my own where I tried to figure out who in my life has priority. Who gets my time? Because, apparently, my one-on-one time is valuable. What a vulnerable thing to realize, and even more vulnerable to decide to intentionally give away pieces of my time. I want to be sure I’m giving it to those I want to give it to.
I’m finding this list shifts as it needs to. The inner-circle can widen a bit or shrink a bit depending on the week, depending on my grace and energy levels. But there is a pretty solid core there, and my kids are in that core.
I did an experiment one Sunday morning. Twenty minutes with each child, in which we would do whatever they desired. I added up the minutes and realized with four kids that’s a lot of minutes to give, and I felt vulnerable committing me to them and their desires. But it felt good. It felt good to care intentionally. To give something away for once not because I was being pawed at but because I had willed it so. And let me tell you, the time flew by.
I played ice-man superheroes with Luther. We wore capes and ran through the house shooting ice out of our fingertips and freezing everything in sight.
I played secret spies with Nehemiah. We were being attacked by evil bad guys. We went into separate rooms and talked in hushed tones over FaceTime, trying to outsmart the enemies while flying our ships.
I played little people with Charis, and we set up shop and created a fantastical story about a husband that loved candy and a wife that wanted to sew a hat and bossed her husband around. They drove a semi-truck and had five dogs and stepped in dog poop and fought a lot, but they loved each other.
I took Zoe shopping so she could spend her Christmas money, and we scoured the entire Toys-R-Us and she explained to me why everything single thing she picked up was junk and a waste of money and how they just made it look fun so kids would buy it. Then she saw the karaoke microphone stand, and she gave me puppy dog eyes to spot her the money she was short on, and I texted Tony and we both buckled hard.
The twenty minute experiment was a success, and that night we made a family dance floor and had open mic night where we sang and danced and fought over whose turn it was to sing. And we laughed.
It was my time, my time to do with as I saw fit, and it was eye-opening to think people might actually desire time alone with me.
Me.
Worth something.
Worth something worth giving away.
Who gets me? Who gets my time?
I feel so vulnerable.
But I want to tell my friend, I think I do like this.
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