I try never to be late. And I'm usually not. Ever since I was a kid and we were late to everything. I remember everytime we walked into a family gathering for my dad's side of the family, they would either clap when we finally arrived or--on the rare occasion that we were not late--their mouths would drop in awe that we were actually on time. Either way, it was extremely embarassing. We could never win.
So, now that I'm more in charge of things, now that I'm a mom, I'm usually on time--if not early. It's okay. I like being this way. However, this usually means that I'm waiting for everyone else.
I have a couple theories on being late: First, I heard once--on Oprah, I think--that it's arrogant that people who are always late expect that others should wait for them. I'm not sure that I think that's always the case. But I have seen circumstances when it is.
My other theory is lateness is a lack of planning. You usually know approximately how long it's going to take you to get out of your house, into your car, how long it should take you to travel, all that. And one step ahead of that, you should plan for things that could come up--such as a daughter having to use the bathroom after she's buckled safely into her car seat.
Of course, there's always the chance that it's traffic or something like that. Totally not the person's fault.
And I don't blame anyone who's late. I just don't want to be late.
Well, I found out first-hand this weekend that my energy focused on NOT being late has turned my daughter into a monster.
We go to church every week. Well, recently our church was moved up to11 a.m. A weird time, especially since it covers the most usable lunch time. I decided to keep us from being hungry, I'd prepare a brunch right before church.
Well, I didn't plan it right. I decided to wait on the gravy (for the biscuits and gravy) until after the sausage was cooked, so that I could crumble sausage into the gravy. Trust me, the sausage in the gravy is well worth it. Well, at five minutes until eleven, I was madly washing dishes--I can't leave my house or go to bed at night until all dishes are out of the sink--in my pajamas still.
Bianca was ready to leave and was very irritated that I wasn't ready to leave at eleven o'clock. She put on her shoes, grabbed her backpack, and headed out the front door. I was brushing my teeth when I heard the front door shut. She wouldn't really leave, right? I spit out the toothpaste and ran to the door. There it was, size 9 foot prints in the snow all the way down my front walk and around the corner. I yelled to her, "Please, Bianca, come back. I promise we'll leave in five minutes."
"Mom, we're going to be late. I'll just walk."
I plead and plead. I know I can't let my five-year-old daughter walk in the icy sidewalks to church. She finally came back. We were about fifteen minutes late when we finally arrived. Next week, I'll plan better.
