I work in healthcare. My job is busy, full of deadlines, and requires me to think ahead – to anticipate problems, plan for what’s next, and stay three steps in front of whatever’s coming.
I spend most of my day living in the future.
My three-year-old spends most of his day living in a puddle he found in the driveway.
Guess which one of us is happier.
The Worms
A few weeks ago, we were heading out the door for daycare. Running late, as usual. I had a 9am meeting I couldn’t miss and a mental checklist already cycling through my head.
My son stopped at the bottom of the porch steps.
“Daddy, look. Worms.”
There were worms. A few of them, sprawled across the wet sidewalk after last night’s rain.
“That’s cool, buddy. Let’s go.”
He didn’t move.
“Why do they come out when it rains?”
“I don’t know. Worm stuff. Come on.”
“Can I pick one up?”
I looked at my phone. 8:41. I looked at my son. He was crouched down now, gently poking at a worm with one finger, completely absorbed.
And I had a choice.
I could drag him to the car, get to daycare, make my meeting, and keep living in the future.
Or I could crouch down next to him.
I crouched.
He picked up the worm. Held it like it was a tiny treasure. Grinned at me like he’d just discovered something incredible.
The Speed We Live At
Here’s what I’ve realized: I move through life at a speed designed for productivity, not presence.
I eat lunch while answering emails. I listen to podcasts at 1.5x. I scroll through my phone while my kids play in the same room, technically there but not really there.
I’ve optimized myself into a ghost.
My son hasn’t learned that yet. He doesn’t know how to half-pay attention. When he’s doing something, he’s doing it. When he’s watching a garbage truck, that garbage truck is the only thing in the universe. When he’s eating a popsicle, he’s having a spiritual experience.
He’s not distracted. He’s not thinking about what’s next. He’s just… in it.
And every time I rush him, I’m teaching him to leave.
The Phrase That Haunts Me
Somewhere along the way, I picked up a habit. When my son asks me to do something – play trains, read a book, come look at a cool rock – my default answer is: “In a minute.”
In a minute.
It sounds reasonable. It sounds like “yes, soon.” But what it actually means is: something else is more important right now.
The problem is, he hears it. And he’s learning that he comes after the phone. After the email. After whatever invisible thing I’m always tending to.
A few weeks ago, I asked him to come to dinner.
“In a minute,” he said.
I heard myself. I didn’t like it.
What I’m Trying Now
I’m not going to pretend I’ve figured this out. I still check my phone too much. I still have meetings I can’t miss and deadlines that feel urgent.
But I’ve started doing a few small things:
The first five minutes. When I get home, I put my phone in a drawer and give my full attention to my kids for the first five minutes. No glancing. No “just checking one thing.” It’s harder than it sounds.
Saying “yes” before “in a minute.” When he asks me to look at something, I try to actually look – right then. Even if it’s brief. The thing itself usually takes less time than the delay.
Crouching down. Literally. Getting on his level, physically, forces me to slow down. It’s hard to rush when you’re eye-to-eye with someone two feet tall.
Noticing what he notices. Worms. Airplanes. The way shadows move. He sees a world full of things I’ve learned to ignore. Sometimes I try to see it again.
The Real Lesson
My son isn’t teaching me mindfulness from a TED Talk. He’s not recommending an app or a morning routine.
He’s just being three.
And in being three, he’s showing me something I forgot: that the present moment isn’t a thing you get to after you finish everything else. It’s the only thing that’s actually happening.
The future I’m always planning for? It’ll show up on its own. It always does.
But my son asking me to look at worms with him? That’s only happening now. And “now” has a shelf life.
What I Want Him to Know
Someday, my son will grow up. He’ll have his own deadlines, his own stress, his own reasons to move fast and live in his head.
But I hope he remembers this: his dad crouched down with him sometimes. His dad looked at the worms. His dad wasn’t always in a hurry.
I hope he remembers that he was worth stopping for.
Because he is.
And maybe if I practice it enough now, I’ll remember it too.