After years of being obsessively punctual, I think that I’ve finally stopped caring. Or maybe I’ve accepted the fact that I no longer have complete control over my punctuality. Or maybe I’ve stopped obsessing about it. Whatever the cause, I can’t seem to be on time to anything anymore. There are days when I’m exactly on time or up to ten minutes early. On the days when I am not on time, I’m excessively late; I’m usually about 20 minutes to an hour late.
What I never, EVER do though is blame my kids. It’s my fault if I’m not on time. The last time I was incredibly late to something, it was because I forgot my purse. We were going to the Jumping Party Zone for playgroup. I managed to leave on time and arrive ten minutes before the place opened. Since no one was there yet, I went across the street to get gas in the van, only to discover that I’d left my purse at home. It was a risk, but I drove all the way back home (30 miles) with the needle below the line, got gas at the station closest to my house (about 8 miles) and then drove all the way back to the jumping place. We were over an hour late.
I’m almost never on time for church on Sundays, but you can always count on me to be on time for Wednesday night supper. This is not because I never miss a meal, but because I have everyone at church by 5:00 so Corey can participate in the Wesley Choir. He gets off the bus and we’re all in the van waiting.
I guess my latest thing is that I hate rushing to get out the door. It stresses me out, makes me snappy at the kids, and if we’re late, I’m in a bad mood for about an hour. It’s just not worth it anymore.
I mean, I’m a grown up when I have to be. Like if I have an important performance or doctor’s appointments, I’m never late unless something goes terribly wrong. For other things, I just have to say, “At least I’m here and I brushed my teeth this morning…or did I?”