I have become the woman that is perpetually late. If I had a catchphrase it would be “Let’s go, hurry up, we’re LAAAATE”.
Look, I never claimed that I have ever been Ms. Punctuality. I have always been the type of person to show up right on time or maybe a minute or two late. I am now the perpetually late person. Not an insignificant minute or two, but it’s SO not my fault. It’s my kids’ fault…blame them.
It’s not like I didn’t have enough time to get ready. I had a 4:00am hungry baby wake up call. At 5:00am my four year old announced that she she has a new found fear of toilets, she decided to pee in her bed. So, you see, I had an early start. I even gave myself plenty of time to get dressed. Not that it takes me very long. Since I’m two months postpartum, I have exactly two items of clothing that fit my mushy body semi-decently.
I was dressed and ready. They were dressed and ready. We were all ready to go, I swear. But, somewhere between grabbing my purse and reaching the door all hell broke loose. Somehow in less than a minute, my daughter suddenly lost her left shoe, my baby decided to test how absorbent my shirt is and I am somehow no longer holding my keys. In the 3 minutes it takes me to realize my keys are in my pocket, someone will have to pee/need some water/need to change because their shirt is “too green”. If you ever wondered what a real life shit show looks like, this is it.
I can’t even call you to let you know I’m running late because the closest phone to me is a Dora the Explorer phone, so I can only call Boots and Diego. In an attempt to “help” me, my 4 year old just dumped out my purse because apparently merely peering into the bag would not be efficient. I finally find my phone wedged in between a couch cushion next to the missing bottle of milk from last week. As I dust the Pirate’s Booty crumbs from the screen I realize my phone is frozen because there are too many animal puzzle apps taking up the phone memory. So, sorry… now I’m not only going to be tardy, but also a jerk for not letting you know.
When my band of gypsies and I finally do make it out the door it is still far from smooth sailing. While I attempt to juggle my purse, a diaper bag, a Minnie mouse backpack and push a stroller, my phone will inevitably ring with a call I have to take. I “shush” my 4 year old so I can answer and she will start crying and screaming “You’re so mean, I hate my family, I wish I had a different family”. This will make the baby cry, which in turn will make me want to cry. The neighbors will stare and I will awkwardly wave and flash my best “ahhh shucks, kids will be kids” look and mumble a string of expletives under my breath. I will then load my screaming children into my car and cross my fingers that my neighbors aren’t Googling the number for Child Protective Services. Now I am overwhelmed. And obviously, I’m late.
But you see, it’s not that I’m inconsiderate or have poor time management skills. It’s just that everytime I try to leave the house it turns into such complete and utter chaos that I wind up wondering why I even made plans in the first place. So, I have two choices. I can either become a hermit (tempting) or I can continue to be late and hope everyone realizes…it’s my kids’ fault, blame them.