Time Out
Nov 12, 2025
I put myself in time out this morning.
My son Deeds has been overdue for learning about Time Outs. He’s a little spoiled this one, born after ten years, long after his older siblings put me through the rigors of disciplined toddler parenting. With a house full of doting adults, he’s yet to learn the beauty of a little structure.
Today was time-out day.
You know those mornings where 9am feels like lunchtime because you’ve already been catering to someone’s needs for four straight hours?
That’s me today.
I miss the mornings when I could finish a coherent thought without a “Mommy!” breaking through; without a mess, or a cracked favorite mug, or a sock emergency, or looking up to find this little climber halfway to a dangerous perch again.
I try, I really do;
to be present as a parent,
to look him straight in the eye,
to sit on the floor,
to read yet another Curious George story with full-body enthusiasm.
But recently I made a cheshbon, an accounting, of how many hours of unadulterated Deeds time I get in a day. Eight.
Four before school. Four after.
Eight full hours of 1:1 time. It's a full-time job wrapped around another full-time job.
I don’t think we ever really account for those hours. Eight a day. Basically a 9-5, except there’s an actual 9-5 in between.
And so sometimes, we wear thin.
Our patience runs out.
Our capacity lowers and our voices rise.
This morning, after yet another meltdown and a flung toy set, I finally scooped him up and plopped him into a corner.
I set a timer for three minutes, the same as his age,
and told him he’d stay there until the bell rang.
And then I sat there with him.
Without trying to finish a thought.
Or a task.
Or clean a mess.
Or heal the world.
I just took us both to time out and breathed until that timer rang.
Best three minutes of my day so far.
I’d forgotten that a time out isn’t a punishment; it’s a pause. A reset for our bodies and brains.
I’d avoided it for so long because my bleeding heart couldn’t handle the idea of my baby growing up. But time out isn’t a punishment, it’s a nutrient. A nervous-system reboot for a dysregulated little tyke trying to line up with a big world and all its expectations.
And truth be told, we adults need that too.
I can’t remember the last time I took a time out.
Set a timer. Sat myself in a corner. Just breathed.
Took a break from the world,
looked at my mess from a new angle,
and cried it out for a minute or two before coming back different.
Parenting is an art that grows us up. We think we’re supposed to be the adults, the ones with the plan, the ones who know the way... but as evidenced by the avalanche of parenting questions that pour into our weekly Vessel Q&As, none of us have it figured out.
We’re all still growing ourselves up, under the mistaken assumption that we should’ve already done it perfectly because parenting demands it of us.
But it doesn’t.
Parenting gently asks us to take our little ones along on the journey.
To let them light the way even as we guide them on the path.
To relearn how to skip and hopscotch, because growing up isn’t linear, it’s lyrical.
And to give ourselves the gift of a time out here and there.
To nap at the side of the road,
to eat a sandwich (or a cookie),
to talk about the shape of the clouds,
giving our tired feet and hearts time to find a more regulated rhythm before taking the next step.
Wherever this email finds you today:
set a three-minute timer.
Find a corner.
Slide down to the floor.
Breathe a little. Crying’s fine too.
And when the timer rings, come back a little better.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, Deeds has just calmly informed me that he plans to spread yogurt all over the couch.
In your corner,
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I love the number 112. It's like my matrix. (Gematria of my name, time I was born, YHVH and Elokim added together...and today is 11/12! How awesome?)
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