Oscar, my four-and-a-half-year-old son, was waiting for our Saturday trip to the swimming pool. On Tuesday morning, he asked how many sleeps were left. I counted on my fingers. He counted too, then asked whether he could put his swimming trunks on.
The next day, the same question. I said there was one fewer sleep left, with the satisfaction of an adult who has just provided accurate information.
Oscar looked at his fingers, then mine. The swimming trunks came up again.
Saturday didn’t have the same shape for both of us
I could see the whole week: his little sister Alice’s nursery, my days, Friday’s shopping, then the pool. For Oscar, Saturday was mainly the moment when we would finally leave.
“In three days” gave him a number. It didn’t necessarily show him where we were. And his question might also mean: do you remember what we planned?
I’d started replying, “I already told you.” It was true. It hadn’t brought Saturday much closer.
Put the wait somewhere we can look at it
We drew a few boxes on a sheet, one for each day until our outing. In the last one, I attempted a swimming pool. Oscar added something that looked like a shark. We were still going to the municipal pool.
Each morning after breakfast, we crossed out the day that had finished and looked at the boxes left. I pointed to today’s box, then the one for our trip.
“Today, we’re here. After these sleeps, we get to the pool.”
Oscar could touch the paper, count again or ask me to count with him. We didn’t need a big calendar with every month. A few boxes were enough for this particular wait.
He still asked how many sleeps were left. Sometimes twice in the same morning. The paper hadn’t turned him into a time expert, and it wasn’t supposed to forbid him from asking.
But now we had somewhere to return to together. I could answer without repeating the whole explanation, then acknowledge that the wait felt long to him.
On Friday, Oscar pointed to the last box.
He already wanted to sleep to make things go faster.
I kept the swimming trunks for the next day. We hadn’t gained a single day; we’d simply found a way to watch them pass.
