“Just five more minutes.” This is the familiar plea from my eldest child every night as my spouse and I tuck him into bed, hoping to linger a little longer while he drifts off to sleep. As he adjusts to his new “big boy” life, complete with a toddler bed and superhero-themed pajamas, this request serves as a cherished remnant of his swiftly fading babyhood. I’ll admit, though, there are times when I feel a tinge of frustration. As a stay-at-home mom, I rarely get a moment alone, and those fleeting instances when both kids are asleep become sacred. I find myself watching over them in silence, resolute about not letting anything encroach upon my hard-won solitude.
During those five minutes on the floor of his room, I often find my mind racing ahead to what I’ll do once I leave—whether it’s unwinding on the couch with a glass of wine or tackling the laundry pile waiting for me. While I should be savoring this time with my son, I’m usually preoccupied with all the tasks that beckon me, even as I know these moments are numbered.
Before long, he’ll be six, pleading for five more minutes outdoors with his neighborhood friend. They might not always get along, but tonight is different—their earlier disagreements are forgotten as they enjoy a rare moment of companionship. With little time outside during the school day, I’ll let this one slide, fully aware that his childhood is slipping away.
Fast forward to his eleventh year, and mornings will become a battleground over those precious extra minutes of sleep. I’ll remind him of the last time he requested five more minutes and ended up missing the bus. While part of me will look forward to the day he can drive himself, another part will ache at the thought of losing this last bit of his dependency on me.
At seventeen, he’ll text me for five more minutes at his girlfriend’s house, even though he’s already past curfew. He’ll assure me that the movie is just about to end, but I won’t be fooled; I remember the way my husband and I used to sneak those extra minutes together. “Finish the movie,” I’ll reply. “But be home by 11.”
Soon enough, he’ll head off to college, no longer needing me for anything beyond making sure the laundry is ready for his weekend visits. While I’ll be busy with my own life, my phone will remain close by, hoping he might call during his walk back to his dorm.
Years later, when my son visits with his family, our home will be alive with the sounds and energy of children. I’ll see reflections of his childhood in my granddaughter’s focused expression and my grandson’s striking resemblance to his father. When it’s time for them to return home, I’ll feel the sting of goodbye as I help him gather their belongings.
“Can you stay just a little longer?” I’ll ask, unable to resist.
“Sure, Mom,” he’ll respond with a smile. “Five more minutes.” And even if he’s just humoring me as the clock ticks down, those minutes will bring me more comfort than he could ever realize.
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In summary, the fleeting nature of childhood is encapsulated in the simple request for five more minutes—a bittersweet reminder of how quickly time passes.