My Dilly-Dallyer

Brooklyn is a dilly-dallyer. Meticulous and careful by nature, she has exceptional concentration for a five-year-old. However, this does make it difficult for her to move from one activity to another. In a world where we are often driven by the clock, life can be frustrating with someone who will not be rushed.

This month she has been attending our neighbor's Joy School twice a week. Each Tuesday and Thursday morning we awake with time to spare. "Hurry and get dressed Brooklyn" I instruct. She disappears in her room. Thirty minutes later I find her still in her underwear, putting multiple outfits together, unable to decide. "Brooklyn we only have ten minutes before Joy School starts and you have to eat breakfast. PLEASE HURRY." I emphasize. Five minutes later, "Brook, if you don't put something on and eat RIGHT NOW you will be late for Joy School." "Brook, less talk more action." "Do you know what HURRY means?" "It doesn't MATTER what socks you wear. JUST HURRY." "Brooklyn, no TALKING- EAT!" "HURRY! HURRY HURRY!"
Its not her fault. Like many kids her age, she just doesn't grasp Go-Time. But unfortunately I still get frustrated with her.

This morning it was my fault. I thought it was Friday until Avery remembered, "Is Brooklyn going to Joy School?" Thank you Avery. She was already fifteen minutes late. "Brook! Today is your Christmas party! We have to HURRY!" And she tried to. But there were so many pretty panties to choose from. And she couldn't find the socks she wanted. Avery and I said a quick obligatory prayer over the Cream of Wheat but I soon realized Brook wouldn't have to time to eat any of it. "Brooklyn! You are not very good at hurrying! You are going to miss your party!" I yelled. She came running down the hallway with her snow boots, flopped down and pulled them on as quickly as she could. "Is this the right way Mom?" She asked. "Yes! Hurry!" I threw her her coat, "Hurry!" I handed her a Pop Tart. "Eat this! Hurry!" She flopped back down to the floor. "What are you-?!" But I had to stop. She was kneeling down in the middle of the floor, eyes closed, arms folded, head bowed reverently, saying a silent prayer over her breakfast.

I don't teach my children half as much as they teach me. In the midst of worldly demands I had grossly neglected my priorities. My five-year-old Brooklyn, however, my little dilly-dallyer, had remembered her Savior. And in her humble way, she taught me the most valuable lesson I've learned this Christmas season.