tardiness

I am not known for my punctuality. I believe it's some sort of personality defect - really it's my only flaw. (Please hear the sarcasm there!) If it involves leaving the house by a certain time to get somewhere else by a certain time - forget it.

It drives my husband crazy. I can't tell you how many times I've prayed desperately as we've been driving somewhere for the slow drivers to find other roads and for stoplights to be frozen green. Sometimes it's worked miraculously, but most times, we show up a couple minutes late (even if the clock is set forward by unknown increments.)

But in my defense, it's usually not my fault (unless tardiness is genetic, then in a roundabout way, it probably is. But we won't go there now...)

It's the kids.

They are the reason I am perpetually late and perpetually flustered. We rarely make it to church on time. We'll fly into the parking lot and each of us will have to run with separate kids to make it to their separate areas before the worship team is done with the five songs they do on Sunday mornings. If we have to add a bathroom stop in for the youngest, we're screwed.

We haven't made it on time to freestyle wrestling practice yet this month. Even if I drive like a you-know-what from you-know-where, I still pull up to the school at 6:31. And the kids are running inside in various stages of dress and undress. Last week, I thought we were on a roll...until one boy decided to check the chickens a minute before everyone was out the door. This normally would be cause for celebration (he did something without being asked! It's a miracle!) but not on this day. He set all five eggs on the rug in front of the side door and his brother promptly smushed one when he turned to tie his shoes. Yep, we were late again.

The next time practice day rolled around, we were again just about ready to head out the door on time and I (stupid me) asked the middle child (who never has ANYTHING ready) if he remembered his water bottle. Of course not. Then he couldn't get the lid unscrewed to fill it up. I uncapped the thing and was treated to the not-so-pleasant aroma of stale well water. I couldn't just fill it up and have him drinking stinky water, so out came the Dawn and hot, hot water. You guessed it - late again.

I've lost count how many times we've had to turn around halfway to town to retrieve someone's wrestling shoes. Last week we showed up to guitar lessons without a guitar. I probably shouldn't say "we" because really I have enough on my mind to get four kids into the van and make sure they're not too dirty or that their everyday clothes aren't too dorky in case we stop at Walmart or the library. I can't remember the guitar too. (The upside is that the guitar-forgetter will probably never leave it behind again.)

I feel a bit like a cowboy trying to round up the herd and get them through the door and corralled into the van. All without losing one or forgetting one behind. I'm not a very good drover however, because my four bulls fight me every step of the way, leaving behind tell-tale piles of crap and taking much longer to get going than even the most patient cowboy could tolerate.

So, this morning I was late again. I was trying to get my oldest in to town to meet his father for a doctor's appointment. I was in the van but he hadn't changed his clothes and then he forgot his language book (yes, I'm a mean mom and make my kids take their schoolwork everywhere if they haven't finished it.) Then, driving into town we get stuck behind an idiot in a PT Cruiser driving 45 mph. Hubby wanted me to get to his office early, which of course meant we got there two minutes late. Phooey.

As I was driving home, I noticed my feet felt weird. Looked down to discover I had left the house wearing my slippers. Who do I blame on that one?

It's probably a good thing that my kids don't have to make a bus to school in the morning - they'd end up chasing tail lights like my brothers and I did many, many times. So, maybe it is genetic. Which of course, just means that it's still not my fault - it's my parent's.