The children are on a long and long awaited vacation with their father, and it’s peaceful and quiet in the house. That said, both myself and the cats miss the princesses. The latter are constantly searching their rooms while calling for the girls, and sleep in their beds. And so do I, occasionally. I like just laying there, looking around. It gives me peace of mind to feel that they are near, even though they’re far away.

We’ve had a demanding, yet important, spring together. The children have been surrounded by illness and death, and have not been unaffected by the events. Of course, we could have isolated the children from everything that has happened, leaving them unknowing about the most of it. In a busy schedule, it certainly would have been both energy- and time saving if we had “protected”  them. With the children living half the time with their father, and half the time with me, we could easily have decided when and where they should live at any time, reduced their worries and hurried through the sorrow.

It was definitely with a heavy heart I let my children be a part of what is the hardest things life has to offer. It was tempting to keep them here, and rather distract them with football games and nice trips. But we chose differently. An almost impossible, but still correct, choice. In a conversation, we decided that together, we own the time needed to go through life with the children, including the part of life that hurts and can be brutal.

A few months ago, I was a bit worried about my oldest princess, who rarely goes home to any of her friends after school, and equally rarely brings someone home with her. When I asked her about this, to find out if anything was wrong, I received a thoughtful answer:

Honestly, Mom. I’m with my friends all day at school. I’m with other kids in drama school at night, handball and my dancing. Of all the people in the world, you, who love to be by yourself, have to understand that I like to be alone as well, without any noise and stress? You don’t have to worry, I have friends, but I just don’t want to be with them all the time.

A few weeks ago, when the turbulent spring was about to calm down, I was, as usual, making dinner in a hurry before the children’s soccer practice. The youngest princess was sitting remarkably quiet in the living room, doing her homework. When I looked at her, I saw a sad girl, moping and swearing at her Norwegian books. As I pointed out that she needed to hurry up, so she’d have time to eat before her practice, I noticed that her eyes, which usually sparkle with life, were dull and tired. Suddenly a thought rushed through my head: “Enough already! I don’t want to do this anymore! This is crazy! Why on earth does she have to go to soccer practice today? Why can’t she do her homework after she has rested for a while? It’s time for us to slow down – starting right now!”

I turned around, went into the living room, and told her she could skip the practice if she wanted to, to which she replied: “Can I really do that, Mom?”

After dinner, both the girls disappeared to their rooms, where they played, sang, and were on their laptops. As bedtime came around, the youngest came smiling and said:

“Thank you for letting me stay at home and rest tonight, Mom.”

There are many reasons why one sometimes can feel like a really bad mother, but this comment, more than anything else, explains what I was about to become. A battery operated hen affected by newspapers’, school nurses’, teachers’ and doctors’ constant reminders about today’s children being too inactive, and that we need to be careful about the health dangers affected by this. Children have to work out, socialize, and of course, be as cool as all the other children. If you accomplish all of this, all the time, you’re a good mother.

I’ve decided , slowly of course, to join The Slow Movement and dedicate some of my writing time to help speed up The Slow Revolution.