I know, I know. I’ve said it before. Now that I have kids I can’t seem to be on time, to anything, ever. And I’m sure those of you out there who have yet to have children, don’t have them, or they’ve gotten older are like, “blah, blah, blah. We hear you Miss Tardy.”
I’m sure you might suggest that I plan to leave early, or perhaps set out everything I’ll need for the next day; anything that you think should reasonably allow me to not be late. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?
Theories and plans are pretty little ideas made up of one part unicorn smiles and two parts laughter of tiny fairies. So nice, so warming to the cockles.
So unrealistic in a world that is ruled by toddler tantrums and preschool poops.
If you look at it scientifically rather than through the rose-colored glasses of good intentions you can see where all the planning, laid out clothes, and dreams of departing without yelling are torn apart, and thrown into the black hole where my toddler’s shoes reside. But we’ll get more into that later.
Let’s look a little closer, shall we? Let’s go back in time, to a place in the past where I imagined I could stop the tardiness. Let’s deconstruct the act of being late, and see where it all falls apart miserably. Come on.
It all begins with the well-intentioned, early set alarm. I will get up an hour early tomorrow! you think, and as you lay in your warm bed, where you can easily forget the realities of life with children, you smile quite pleased at yourself for the morning ahead. I’m going to be on time tomorrow! You double-check that the alarm is really set, and you fall asleep contentedly with visions of arriving early dancing in your head.
Baa-baa-baa!
Oh dear Lord! You hit snooze quickly. Just five more minutes!
You’re not going to get up early. You’re going to hit snooze six more times. You’re exhausted from rocking a teething toddler at 2am. Interrupted sleep isn’t the same, is it? Which also reminds you, we really have to get the four year old in her own bed. You’ll be feeling that kick in the kidney for the rest of the day.
It’s ok. You’re not too hard on yourself as you crawl out of bed an hour later, rubbing the spot on your side where you were assaulted overnight. After all, despite missing your alarm you still have three hours until it’s time to leave. Piece of cake!
Mmmmm. Coffee. You almost enjoy a full two sips before being summoned for chef and waitress duty. Milk and eggs for the masses.
Well that took longer than you thought.
Bath time. Get dressed. No silly. Not just yourself. Everyone else too. You think back to playing dolls as a child, and getting them dressed. It’s not the same at all.
Imagine wrangling a slippery pig who is mesmerized by the television and can’t seem to understand how pants work anymore. Put your leg here!!
Oh dear Lord. You’re already yelling. This isn’t good.
Don’t look at the clock. It will only make you feel worse.
“Why do you have chocolate on your shirt?! Where did you get candy?!”
“Mommy cannot hold you right now. No, please don’t cry. Why are you crying?!”
“Really? You have to poop right now?”
“Where are your shoes?”
“Where’s your sister?”
“No! Don’t play in the toilet! Your shirt is soaked!”
“No, we don’t have one more minute. Put the iPad down.”
“No you can’t take your six favorite Barbies. Don’t cry! You can take three.”
“Where’s your shoes?”
“Don’t pull out your hair bow!”
“How can you be hungry?!”
“Yes, Mommy will fix you a snack to take. Yes, juice too.”
“Go pee. Yes you do have to go. Go pee now!”
“Where are your shoes?”
“Where is your sister? How did she get outside?!”
“Get out of the mud puddle! You’re soaked!”
“What makes you think you can play in the puddle if I won’t let her?!”
“Get in the car!”
“We’re gonna be late!”
I usually put mine in the car at this point. Yes, I still have to gather snacks, cups, coats, diaper bags, umbrellas, and my purse, but it will only take longer with them. At least if they’re buckled up their madness is confined to a location of my choosing. And it’s like the only time I get to pee without somebody watching.
We might just make it. You look at your watch. If I leave now we’re good. You almost faint from shock.
There they are strapped in their respective car seats, smiling little angels ready to help you arrive on time.
“Where are your shoes?”
“Seriously, where are your shoes?!”
You have a brief moment where you consider letting all knowledge of shoe loss fall to the wayside. But, it’s cold, and it’s wet.
You see a lone lefty laying on the pavement, and you crouch down to look under the vehicle for its counterpart. Ouch. Your first real pang of pain from the kidney punch you took.
No shoe.
You search every inch of the vehicle, but to no avail.
“Where’s your shoe?! For the love of Pete!”
The toddler giggles hysterically. She ain’t talking.
“Mom. Who’s Pete?”
“He’s the man who’s better than the word I wanted to say. Where is your shoe?!”
“I’ve got them on.”
“Not you. Her. The hater of shoes and hair bows! I hope you’re happy. We’re gonna be late!”
More baby giggles.
You run inside. You run back to the van for the keys. Then you run inside. You’ve given up finding the missing shoe, and figure there’s a better chance inside.
In your toddler’s room you see a plethora of different shoe choices.
A red Mary Jane. A pink boot. But no matches!
Flip-flops? No.
You considering pairing a purple boot with the pink one, but they’re both the same foot. So you finally decide on a pair of neon pink sandals. With socks. Sigh.
At this point I want you to realize a few things.
You will hit every red light.
You will need to get gas terribly.
You will get behind someone going twenty miles below the speed limit. They will likely have a handicap tag, and you might feel momentary guilt for the terrible things you are saying about them under your breath.
You will be overly ecstatic when they turn, but then you will get behind a truck like your grandpa’s. Not the one he has now, or even the one he had when you were a kid. It will be the first truck he ever had. It will also have an unsecured ladder hanging from the back, and no working taillights.
Despite all your best efforts, despite the very best laid plans, and despite all the good intentions you will arrive late. Even if just by five minutes, you’ll be late. You could set all your clocks fifteen minutes fast with the hope of fooling yourself. You would still be late.
This is parenthood. A vortex of tardiness.
Can you still term it fashionably late when you’re carrying a stained diaper bag, and a sippee cup in each hand?
I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure out where the shoe went.