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I dreamed a dream in time gone by…now [grace] has killed the dream I dreamed

I was having coffee with a friend last week when she wrecked my day by telling me that she had instituted a new policy in her home regarding her kid’s iPad usage: none of it allowed from Monday to Thursday. I almost did a spit take (both out of shock and because I’ve always just wanted to), but I couldn’t argue with her arguments as to the benefits of said policy: better sleep, better attitude, better life. I knew that I would have to do something with this information, and I knew what I had to do with it, but I was, like Linus said, sore afraid.

The Husband and I decided to try it, but gradually. So this past Monday was a no-iPad day in the house–and we survived. With benefits. In fact, we’re going to keep adding days, because honestly? It’s not just good for the kids, it’s good for me. I’m on my own phone less (intentionally, though the children would demand it anyway), which requires us all to show up for real life more. Which is harder, and better. I’ve noticed how I, and in particular the child who shares my anxiety, get so angry when our devices are taken away from us or our time with them is interrupted. And I’m pretty sure this is…not good? Maybe even toxic? It’s almost like I don’t have to constantly and frantically scroll through Twitter to get through a day.

It’s worth a shot, anyway. Besides, real life provides plenty of material worth being present for.

Yesterday morning, in what became a shitstorm of epic proportions, I took the boys to school, fresh off our device-free day and feeling quite smug about my newfound austerity and what it must say about my parenting skills. The Kid had to use the bathroom so I took him to the adults’ toilet at his school, and he promptly found himself trapped there due to a faulty lock. Little Brother looked both panicked and desperate to escape, and two of TK’s friends ran to get help. Soon, several teachers were hovering and helping, and I was talking to TK through the door wondering how this was my life, and the most hilarious thing about it all was that I was the calmest one. I can think to a time not long enough ago when I would have been freaking out, but here I was speaking in measured tones through a wall to my kid, who was soon rescued thanks to a pair of scissors doubling as a screwdriver, and who minutes later on the playground asked me why he still felt nervous, and I marvelled at the progress we’ve both made as we talked it through. Then LB cried when his class had to go inside and his teacher peeled him off me as I snuck away, feeling like an asshole.

It was A Morning.

But I’ve learned, through the divine rhythm of repetition, that we are safe, and held, and I think my children may just be learning this as well. I’ve learned that the life I planned was so much smaller than the one we’re living, and while there is likely no end to the number of times I’ll have to learn this, there is also no end to the number of gifts it gives. To the number of ways grace shows up to kill my old dream and replace it with a real life worth being present for.

There is no end fo the number of times we will jump off piers together, or while LB watches as a self-appointed judge, TK grabbing my hand and demanding I go with him. Then I stand on the beach, turn back toward the pier, and see him–the boy who just seconds ago said he wouldn’t do it again without me–jumping on his own, a grin dancing across his face the whole way. And me, there on the shore, seeing what it looks like to just trust, and leap. Over and over.