11:11 Make a Wish

It happened the first time in high school. A friend pointed to her oversized, fluorescent pink digital watch where the bright blue, disjointed numbers gaily announced it was 11:11.

“Make a wish,” she said.

It seems that 11:11 is the only increment of time when four identical numbers have an opportunity to march across the digital clock’s face at exactly the same time. And that, my friend, deems it special enough to warrant a wish.

As wishes go, I suppose it’s not tremendously high up on the potency totem pole.  After all, 11:11 arrives twice a day, every day. It’s certainly not as rare as glimpsing a falling star or discovering that elusive four-leaf clover. In fact, 11:11 occurs 729 more times a year than the annual BIG WISH, that magical moment when you blow out all your birthday candles and whisper in your head a super-secret desire that's harbored all year. But still, you can easily produce an endless supply of pennies to throw into a fountain—50 wishes per handful if you were so inclined—and 11:11 is only two short minutes a day. What are the odds you’ll spare a glance at the clock during any of those 120 seconds? I was hooked.

So I made a wish—probably that I would get asked out on a date, or score high on the SATs, or (ironically enough) get that black and gold Gucci analog watch I wanted so desperately for Christmas. As the years went by, whenever I’d happen to spy that quartet of digits, I’d make a brief wish. I wished that I’d get into the college I wanted, get the classes I needed, the boyfriend I desired, the job I longed for, the salary I required, the wedding I imagined, and the house I dreamed of. My wishes grew in stature right alongside me.

When I first told my husband to make an 11:11 wish, he was still my brand new boyfriend and had no idea what I was talking about. After I explained it to him he took to it with a fervency that only a Bay State born and bred, baseball playing, superstitious, God-willing and knock-on-wood, no-hats-on-the-bed and don’t-pick-up-a-penny-on-tails kind of guy could. Why waste an opportunity for good luck?

He uses the whole minute, too. He soaks up every last millisecond of that great and all powerful moment. It wasn’t long before I’d find him staring at the clock at 11:09 or 11:10 waiting for it to turn 11:11 the same way I used to stare at the big, moon-faced clock in grade school, willing it with all my might to hurry up and be 3:00.

When I first explained to my son what an 11:11 wish was, he took it to heart like any 7-year-old Massachusetts little leaguer would. He whipped off his baseball cap, slapped his hand over his heart, stood at full attention in front of the clock and squeezed his eyes shut so tight his forehead and nose crinkled together almost painfully. His lips moved silently for about ten seconds before he opened his eyes, gave the clock a firm, brisk nod, and stated loudly and reverently, “Amen.”

And another 11:11 devotee was born.

After I had my children, my wishes evolved from ever-changing flights of fancy to the same specific wish each and every time. Of course, I can’t tell you what it is because I want it to come true. But I imagine it’s what most—if not all—moms wish for. My wish has become a prayer. A hope. A plea. It’s asked most reverently, with humility, and always ends with a silent Amen.

And so, last Friday, when the calendar marked the date 11/11/11, my husband and I stood with our 11-year-old twins and waited for the clock to turn 11:11. We had hit the numerical jackpot and we weren’t about to waste it. We held hands in a circle, bowed our heads, and spent a full, quiet minute together (which in our family is a ) and wished our individual wishes. At 11:12, we all said Amen and the chaos of our crazy lives resumed. I couldn’t have wished for anything more.