I hate being late. I will do everything not to be late. Of course, sometimes it is out of my hands, and this usually involves some kind of public transport mess-up, but even then it makes me feel awful. I hope to teach my son from an early age that being late is Not Good. And that means leading by example.
So this morning, when I realised I had forgotten to make his packed lunch, that we hadn’t written the RSVP to that party invitation and he still had his teeth to brush and shoes to put on, all with minutes before we had to leave, I was not going to let it get in the way. I slapped together a some sandwiches in super quick time (“wow, I think thats the speediest anyone made a packed lunch ever, Mummy!”) and managed to coax him to write fairly well formed letters of his name and brush his teeth really fast. We got out of the door only three minutes late.
Half way to school, happily chatting with my son about which shoes we would wear if we went to meet the queen, and still congratulating myself on averting lateness, I stopped dead. Oops. Every other child was dressed in their own clothes, my son in his uniform. How could I have forgotten? I remembered every other day this week of course, on the days when I didn’t need to remember. I wasnt going to let my son be the only child in school wearing his uniform so we turned around and went back home. And while I scrabbled around looking for something to donate to the christmas fair, he very excitedly got changed out of his uniform into cool jeans and a Scooby Doo t-shirt.
We were fifteen minutes late for school.
The moral of the story? Sometimes it’s just on of those days.