Time

Time.  There never seems to be enough of it and I always seem to be running late.  I am willing to take some responsibility for being late, especially when I cannot leave the house until the Grandfather Clock is reset to the proper time. Even though it means going through all of the cycles and chimes for an eight hour span of time, I will not leave.  By the way, that is a sure fire way to upset “Doc”.

I used to be on time before I had children.  I only had to get myself dressed and organized.  Piece of  cake!  Then “Mommy” was born.  Suddenly prep time to leave the house more than doubled.  I used to be able to throw on a pair of shoes and leave the house to run a quick errand in leass than five months.  Once “Mommy” arrived there was a lead time of thirty minutes or more for gathering diaper bag, bottle, pacifier, and put her in the car seat and in the car.  “Calvin” joined the crew and the time increased exponentially.  My the time “Mini Me” arrived we were on the verge of chaos.

I did manage to get organized to the point that we were like a miniature military unit.  In fact, I cannot believe that drill sargeants were not calling me for advice on handling their troops!  I could get them all dressed and to a photo studio without a hair out of place in record time when they were small and containable. 

I think we started a slacking off as they got a little older.  I lost control of the prep time as they got older.  They were becoming responsible for showering and dressing themselves and that created a multitude of variables.  As time went on, we always seemed to be ten to fifteen minutes late.  I tried everything!  I reset all the clocks in the house periodically so that no one knew the actual time.  It kept them in line for a bit because they never knew if they were early, late or on time.  Then they got watches and phones and no longer relied on the house clocks.

For me, it was too late.  Being late was now my lifestyle.  I tried interventions on myself to no avail.  I reset the clock in my car to the point that the kids accused me of having my own time zone.  I outsmarted myself.  I knew the clock was twenty minustes fast and I would automatically decuct the time in my head.  At my age, I am starting to believe that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.  I am late ten to fifteen minutes everywhere I go.  Can’t blame the kids because they aren’t there, but the years with them have ruined my internal clock. And even on the off chance that I am actually going to be on time, it won’t happen.  The laundry could be folded or a clock set.  Five minutes late again!!!