We want it now.
The answer. The delivery. The money. The feeling.
The little red notification that tells us someone noticed.
A parcel arrives before we remember ordering it.
A show begins before the credits of the last one finish.
Dinner turns in circles inside the microwave.
Three minutes feels excessive.
The kids ask,
How long? Are we there yet? Can I have it? Can I watch it? Can I skip this bit?
I tell them to wait, while checking my phone.
We used to save things.
Money.
Good clothes.
The last biscuit.
A story for bedtime.
Now everything is opened.
Consumed.
Replaced.
The cupboard is full but there is nothing to eat.
The television has a thousand choices. Nobody knows what to watch.
We can speak to anyone in the world.
Still, the house goes quiet when the internet drops out.
Perhaps patience was never natural.
Perhaps it was something we were forced to practice.
Waiting for photographs to be developed.
Waiting for a song to come on the radio.
Waiting until Friday.
Waiting until Christmas.
Waiting for Dad to get home.
Now the world studies us.
What we pause on.
What we click.
What keeps our thumb moving.
It learns our wants before we have time to question them.
Then places the want in front of us.
Bright. Easy. Available now.
And we call that freedom.
But freedom used to mean being able to choose.
Not being unable to stop.
I see it in myself.
Another coffee.
Another idea.
Another logo.
Another tab open.
Another quick look before I begin the work I was already doing.
The school bags wait near the door.
Wet towels line the floor.
A half-made lunch sits on the bench.
My youngest calls from another room.
Dad.
Dad.
Dad.
The phone lights up.
For a moment, both are asking for the same thing.
My attention.
Only one of them knows my name.
So I turn the screen over. Not forever. I'm not pretending to be better than the age I live in.
Just for a minute.
Long enough to hear the birds.
Long enough to let the coffee cool.
Long enough for a child to finish a sentence without me helping.
The world says, Hurry.
Take it. Upgrade it.
You deserve it.
Maybe I do.
But perhaps, I deserve something else too.
A thought that takes time.
A morning that is not productive.
A conversation with no photograph.
A life I do not need to prove I lived.
The impulse will return.
It always does.
Buzzing.
Flashing.
Waiting on the bench.
But for now, the sun is warming one side of my face.
My desk chair sits empty.
The children are making too much noise.
And I am here.
Ten more minutes.
Written by Rob
Observations and small pieces about fatherhood, creativity and ordinary life.