Today has been one of those days. You know, one of THOSE days. It all started with feeling almost incapable of even lifting my head off the pillow this morning. I think it has something to do with the weather. I love that the weather is finally cool and has some sort of semblance of fall, but this kind of weather always makes me want to lounge around in my pajamas in bed all day. Oh, if only!
Getting to work on time was difficult because of my sloth-like movement around the house this morning. Fortunately, the Professor took charge of dealing with Charlie. After I arrived to work, there was no room for laziness. It was a very busy day and I am wiped out. I had meeting after meeting and project after project. My bosses seem to forget sometimes that they have asked me to take on some serious responsibilities, which makes it difficult for me when they ask me to, I don’t know, be a secretary. Their insignificant requests late this afternoon made me late for a work event (I hate being late!). That event started late, which made me late picking up Charlie from daycare. So now I am out an additional $14 that I have to pay to the daycare for being late. They charge $5 dollars for the first minute late and then $1/minute thereafter. So, I was 10 minutes late.
Did I mention that I hate being late? It aggravates me so much, and I hate the chaotic feeling that comes with it. I grew up in a house where everyone was always late. Always. Always! We spent most mornings rushing out the door, my mom speeding down Poplar to get to school on time. Even with all that rushing, I was still late. I probably had cafeteria duty more than anyone else in my school. I got sent to the office so many times for being late that I think Mr. Champion, the vice principal, felt a little sorry for me. I even took licks (slaps on the palms of the hands with a paddle) once for being late. It was either that or 3 days of detention.
Sunday mornings were no different. They were spent in a mad dash to make it to Sunday school/church on time. It rarely happened. I barely recall ever getting there in time for Sunday school. Instead of leisurely Sunday mornings with pancakes and the newspaper, my family spent time arguing about being late. There was always tension on Sunday mornings. My sister inevitably was much of the root of the problem. She was definitely a girly teenager and could not leave the house without full make-up and coifed hair. And then she had to decide what to wear. And then she had to dig it out of the piles of clothes on the floor. Sometimes it was my dad’s fault because he would take his time getting ready – he believed he had plenty of time because no one else would be ready on time. Other times, it was my mother. She tended to have last minute wardrobe changes (that of course required ironing). And many times, our tardiness was my fault. I had difficult waking up so early on Sunday mornings (it was the weekend!) and I did not like going to church. Especially, our church (that’s another post altogether).
What I hated most about the tardiness of our family, besides the frantic rushing to get somewhere all the time, was the waiting. If I needed to go somewhere, I often had to wait and wait and wait for something to take me. If I needed to be picked up, I usually had to wait and wait and wait for someone to show up. On days that I didn’t take the bus home, I had to wait and wait and wait on my mom. I spent a lot of time waiting in my early teen years and it really messed with me. I’m not talking about a mere 5 minutes here or 10 minutes there. The waiting periods were more like 20, 30, and even 45 minutes. And I’m not trying to imply that I expected my family to jump when I needed or wanted to go somewhere. Most of these instances were timed appointments: school, doctors’ appointments, getting picked up at a certain time from a friend’s house, etc.
When I got my own wheels, I vowed that I would work on my tardiness habit. It was hard pattern of life to shake, and I still am not completely past it. It’s almost as if it is engrained in my DNA or something. I really try, but sometimes I just lose my mind and tell myself that I have more time than I actually have. That’s how the cycle begins.
So, when I found myself late picking Charlie up last night from daycare, I was frantic and rushed. I didn’t care about the fact that they would charge me for the extra minutes. What I cared about was the pattern of tardiness that I was practicing and teaching Charlie. I hated that I was making him wait, wondering if anybody was coming to pick him up. I hated that I knew he was hungry and needed dinner. I hated that I usually pick him up at 5:15 and it was now 6:10 - almost an entire hour of waiting. I hate that I did that to him because I know what it feels like.
I know these things are impossible to avoid sometimes. I know that it is probably good to teach him that things don’t always work out the way you want or expect them to. But, I hope to never make him wait for me again.
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