I'm Late, I'm Late

I was running late yesterday morning. By “late” I mean “late compared to where I want to be,” not “late compared to where I usually am.” I’d like to have the kids up by 8am every morning. I wind up having the kids up no earlier than 8:15am every morning. It’s not ideal, but considering that I always put the kids down to sleep 15 minutes late at night, it all evens out.

After waking the kids up at their standard late time, we progressively fell further behind schedule, and I’m not sure how it happened. Maybe I had to turn the TV off after Abbie turned it on one too many times. Maybe the boys pulled one too many forks out of the dishwasher after I just loaded it back in the tray. Maybe those combined five poopy diapers took their toll. Or maybe the sleep deprivation is finally sending me into narcoleptic fits where I lose track of time.

Whatever it was, I finished my morning chores around 9:55am. This is significant because yesterday was Library Day, the day we travel to the library to hear stories. To comfortably arrive at the library for the 10:15 start, though, I generally need to start packing up the kids at 9:45am. Even though the library is only a three-mile drive from our home, I need a full half-hour to compensate for the shoes they’ll remove, the diapers they’ll poop, and the traffic lights that always turn yellow when I’m a half-block away.

I had a choice to make. I could rush the kids to the library and probably walk in late, or I could stay home and miss the kids’ only chance to cohabit with their peers for the week. I could take the kids to the library so they could run around the room not paying attention to the story while I tried to control them, or I could stay home and continue ignoring the kids while I did chores. I could heed all the advice I’d received over the past couple years to enjoy my children now because they’ll be grown soon and these years are far more precious than a clean home,* or I could lay in my death bed years from now wishing I’d built a built better relationships with my children when they were younger so I could have them by side as I drew my last breaths.

After ten minutes and a self-induced guilt trip, we were in the car. It was 10:05am, and I kept telling myself that I should be pulling into the parking lot right now to give me time to set up the stroller and lock the boys into it. I considered carrying the boys into the library, leaving the stroller and its time requirements in the car. Then I considered Abbie running around the parking lot and weaving between cars while my hands were too full of brothers to grab her.

As we sped along, coasting through green lights that I never hit, I reconsidered our time limitations. Maybe we would have enough time for the stroller. Maybe I wouldn’t have to hope that my voice would finally be enough to reign in our wanderer.

I pulled into a parking spot at, oh, about 10:13am. I immediately went to work, pulling out the stroller and locking the boys into it. I pulled Abbie out of her seat, and walked briskly to the door imploring her to hurry the entire way. She complied by weaving between a minimum number of cars in the lot.

As we approached the reading room, the door was shut, meaning the stories had begun. I opened the door while continuing to encourage Abbie to hurry, and heard them sing the opening song as we walked through the doorway. Abbie clapped along as we took off her coat, and I exhaled for the first time in about 30 minutes.

Since we were late, my usual spot in the middle of the room was filled. I hoisted the boys into a distant corner, expecting Abbie to follow. Instead, she remained at the back of the room paying close attention to the story. I kept staring at her, partly to keep an eye on her, and partly to call her to our location should she look at us.

Abbie stayed at the back of the room for the first half of story time. She wandered a little, but mostly she stared at the story leader, paying far more attention than she ever does next to me. About the time I started planning to abandon her at the back of the room ever week, she worked her way to my side so I could do the Beehive motions with her.

After the stories, the instructor made a point to compliment Abbie on how well she did. I don’t know if the praise registered with her, but I appreciated it. It’s good to know that rushing through most mornings and risking speeding tickets on a weekly basis is doing some good.

* “Clean” is a relative term in our home.