What’s does it mean to be present to life? Sometimes it’s easier to define something by what it is not.

The best example of not being present that I can think of—those few months when I had two in diapers and was also driving my oldest to school every morning. I remember that time as one long blur of trying to load them in the car.

The only word in my vocabulary was hurry.

“Can you tie your shoes or should I? Okay. Hurry.”

Next came coats. When did that zipper break?

Then the trek down the driveway, to me a field of landmines, to them a range of treasure.

An interesting rock, hurry. A fascinating bug, hurry. A one-a-kind leaf, hurry. Of course, we must stop to pet the neighbor’s cat, hurry.

We reach the car, but the fight has only just begun. Kids are born with an antipathy to car seats. Pick your strategy, but at some point you’ll resort to anything—bribery, brute force or giving up and staying home.

Or maybe it’s my lucky day. I actually get to the buckling up. Reaching, leaning, pulling, pushing, fumbling around until you hear that click of victory, and you’re good to go. I turn the key and the engine purrs. I'm only two minutes late, which I can make up if I hit all the lights.

“Mommy.” A giggle from the backseat. “Me do it.”

I know it’s a giant step forward in child development, and my kid's gotta be at least six months ahead of the average, but there’s no joy in Mudville. He’s unbuckled his seat belt and he’s out!

Depending on the day, my young children drew me into deep presence, total lack of awareness, mostly, somewhere in-between.

Here’s a few of the ways I define presence in my life