“Every blade of grass has an angel that whispers over it, ‘Grow, grow.’”
-Jewish saying, paraphrased from the Midrash Rabbah
The front door contains a beautiful threshold between our inner and outer lives. On one side is the private, domestic life of our family; on the other is the public world of expectations and schedules. Crossing the doorway marks our emergence into the world outside of the household. For mothers, that crossing can happen several times a day, often under pressure.
In literature, the threshold marks the beginning of a journey. It is where the character begins to change—to learn—whether the character wants that change or not. For instance, in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, Samwise Gamgee pauses and notes when he and Frodo step over the threshold to an unknown world: “This is it. If I take one more step, it’ll be the farthest away from home I’ve ever been.” He knows that once the threshold is crossed, he may never be the same.
In our house, there is no great pause for reflection at the threshold. In fact, our threshold more closely resembles the one in Tolkien’s other great book, The Hobbit. Bilbo starts the journey in chaos and confusion: he wakes up late to a “fearful mess” in the kitchen, with “nearly every pot and pan he possessed seemed to have been used.” He pitters around all morning as though he has nowhere to be, cleaning up, having “a nice little breakfast,” and even whistling to himself. Then he suddenly decides he needs to leave, forgetting half his stuff and running out the door without his hat, walking stick, or handkerchief, completely ill-prepared for the journey ahead.
The main difference in our house is my kids have someone actively trying to shepherd them out the door, while Bilbo has only himself to get ready.
A typical conversation five minutes before it’s time to leave might look like this:
Me: “Are you completely ready?”
Children: “Yes, we’re ready.”
Me: “You have your shoes on? Your water bottle? You’ve gone to the bathroom?”
Children: “Yes, we’re completely ready.”
The conversation five minutes later, when it’s actually time to leave, may look like this:
Me: “Okay, let’s go.”
Child 1: “I forgot to grab the five books I’m going to need on this one-hour trip.” (He doesn’t say it like this, but this is what I hear.)
Child 2: “I can’t find my shoes.”
Child 1: “Where is my water bottle?”
Child 2: “I need to go to the bathroom.”
The threshold in our house is a site of struggle. It’s a site of crossing and recrossing as we run back and forth to get forgotten items. It’s a site of hurry and frustration. Even of yelling on the worst days. It’s the place where the time-bound expectations of the outer world collide with my inner peace.
My guess is many of you have a similar experience.
Most of us have tried more preparation. I make lunches, prep water bottles, pack bags, and set out clothes. These tasks help, but crossing the threshold of our doorway still feels rushed and chaotic most days.
For a long time, I treated the issue as one of logistics. Surely, if we prepare better and plan more, then we can achieve a smooth exit every time, right?
But what if the issue isn’t more logistics?
What if there is another way? And what if that way begins not with better systems, but with a different mindset?
A Mindset Change: Crossing the Threshold with Intent
Instead of focusing solely on the goal, perhaps I should focus on the lesson I’m teaching my children. The lesson is how to get out the door—how to cross the threshold from our inner to outer lives properly, with awareness of time and thoughtful preparation. If I see it as a lesson, then I change my behaviors and my words.
When framed as a lesson instead of a race, we approach the whole issue differently. The expectations change.
We discuss it ahead of time:
“We’re going to grandma’s house today. What do we need to ensure we take? What should we leave behind?”
“If we want to be there at 2:00, what time should we be prepared to leave?”
We talk. We negotiate. My kids become part of the process. They learn to view leaving the house not as something that happens to them, but as something they actively participate in.
If we arrive on time with our sanity intact, then we all have a sense of accomplishment.
If we do not arrive on time, then at least my children have learned a lesson. They’ve recognized where their preparations fell apart. As with any good lesson, we can reflect: What did we learn about getting out the door? What will we change next time?
Most importantly, my own success or failure as a parent now derives from how I raised my kids through the act of leaving the house, not how I arrived on time to all of the events in my life, with the perfect items.
This shift aligns with my values.
I value how I raise my kids through life events, not punctuality. I do recognize that some people value being on time, and I respect that. My own relationship with time is likely shaped by my upbringing. My mother was chronically late to everything, so I am, perhaps, desensitized to being late.
But, growing up, I also observed that being late rarely made much difference. My mother once held a job that required her to catch a flight almost every week. Airline travel would seem to be the one place where punctuality matters, yet she was consistently behind schedule for planes, and she only missed one that I remember.
My point here is not that we should start accepting tardiness as a lifestyle. I’d rather avoid the stress that comes with running through the airport after my flight. Rather, my point is that, where possible, we should reframe the goal of crossing the threshold—make it about the growth we see in our children and less about the goal of getting to the right places on time.
The consequences of not changing this mindset are too great for me. We are wired to absorb the emotional climate around us, and I do not want my children to look back at their childhood and remember it as perpetually rushed and tense. I do not want the act of leaving the house to feel like a daily failure.
Reality does still matter. I know I cannot be 30 minutes late for work every day. Chronic lateness brings its own stress. There are times when being on time matters.
“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Reframe the Question: Will This Matter?
One helpful way I reframe these moments is by asking a simple question:
Will this matter in 5 years?
If the answer is, yes, being late to this meeting or obligation carries long-term consequences, then perhaps the focus should be on teaching my children why this moment matters. Perhaps that means extra prep or more help from my husband to support me in those moments.
But if the answer is, no, this moment will quickly fade from memory, then I allow my deeper values to win. I choose a calmer crossing of the threshold over a perfect arrival.
Furthermore, I put their own activities in the latter category. Being late for school or baseball practice is an opportunity for them to learn a lesson without long-term consequences.
This “five-year question” turns out to be useful far beyond the front door. It offers a way to triage the stressful moments of our lives with kids and outside responsibilities.
Parenting with intention means putting the emphasis on the lessons we teach our children as they grow, and we need to be careful not to put emphasis on “crises” that don’t matter.
Not every problem needs equal energy. Not ever disruption needs to be treated as a crisis.
Here are ten everyday situations you might consider through the lens of Will this matter in five years?
- A late arrival to a casual social event
- A forgotten item that can be replaced or borrowed
- A messy house when company drops by unexpectedly
- A missed extracurricular practice or rehearsal
- A less-than-perfect school project
- Dinner that comes from a drive-thru instead of your kitchen
- A wrinkled outfit or unmatched socks
- A minor misunderstanding with another parent
- An unfinished to-do list at the end of the day
- A canceled playdate so homework or other tasks can be completed
Most of these moments can feel enormous at the time, but they rarely shape the story we tell about our lives years later. What does last is the emotional tone we set, the values we model, and the quiet lessons our children absorb as they watch us cross thresholds again and again.
Consider the story your children will tell about their days with you. What do you want that story to be?
According to the beautiful quote I began this post with, every blade of grass grows because something whispers to it, “Grow.” Perhaps our role, as mothers standing in the doorway, is to whisper that message to our children as we step into the world, imperfectly but together.
“Every blade of grass has an angel that whispers over it, ‘Grow, grow.’”
-Jewish saying, paraphrased from the Midrash Rabbah