Five More Minutes

Yesterday my son Jesús had oral surgery. He was the happiest patient you ever saw, until things got just a bit complicated and his pain was high as they finished their procedure. His mouth was still profusely bleeding as they moved us to the recovery space, tried to give me recovery pamphlets while I comforted him, my hands full of bloody gauze and paper towels. They asked me if I had any questions while I was wiping his tears and resetting his glasses. Then they kindly and professionally, though briskly and abruptly ushered us out the door. Standing in the lobby of the building, searching for keys and handing still dizzy Jesús his cane, holding bags of syringes and gauze, I was angry.

At myself of course, because I have been here. This rushed placed with children. The world is constantly rushing. With my own children and especially with children with high needs and communication difficulties, the most important phrase I have ever learned to say is, “We need five more minutes.”

I know to use this phrase and I should have used it then. This is how to stop the rushing.

“We need five more minutes.”

I have said it to doctors after my baby was given a slew of vaccines and I wanted to nurse her, I have said it to bus drivers, waving them to go ahead and skip our stop as a teary child pulls it together.

Five minutes is magic. It’s when an adult spreads their hands out like a crossing guard for turtles and advocates for their child. We ask other grownups to wait just a pause, while cleats are tied, tears are wiped, pep talk is given.

In five minutes a child can find courage to get out of the car, off the jungle gym, onto the exam table. Sometimes they can stop screaming. Transitions are tough. Everyone deserves time, and people can be so gracious to give it.

Give five more minutes, I remind myself, when listening to a child read, or waiting for them to explain about their favorite leaf. I am in a constant hurry, I forget how fast the world moves when you have only been in it seven years.

I just need five minutes. I say through a locked bedroom door to my kids knocking on the other side. I am reading a magazine. I am texting a friend. I’m just recalibrating. Like a compass when you turn, like eyes in the dark, like when you have the wind knocked out of you by a year long pandemic. Kids get it. They will stop when the world is overwhelming or fascinating. Or both.

When we finally make it to the car I sit quietly with Jesús.

“Take your time buddy,” I tell him. Remembering that this is the grace he gives me everyday. “I am right here. There’s no rush.” And he cries. Huge tears. I wipe his mouth. His glasses fog up and he laughs.

We wait. We wait five minutes. Or ten minutes. I don’t know. We just wait until he is ready. Then he’s ready. And we go.