Throw away your watch

I used to be a punctual person; it was a major pet peeve of mine to be late to an engagement. And even worse were other people that were late to meet up with me. (How thoughtless of they to keep me waiting—don't they have a watch?!) But gone are the days of of my critical nature when it comes to time—I now find it almost impossible to be somewhere at any specific hour. A watch is a useless contraption in my life now—I am no longer in control of time. That control lies almost exclusively with my two year old (and will be even more regulated by Bambino/a when he or she arrives).

But the reasons why babies and toddlers make you late are two different animals all together. The baby will manage to have blowout poos, up his back most likely, just as you put him in the car seat on the way to a party. (The time drain on cleaning up this disaster is self-explanatory. If you have no clue what this entails, I do not want to ruin the surprise for you.) The toddler will tell you just as you've locked up the house that she has to go pee-pee on the potty. (Wait, those aren't completely different animals.) She may or may not be able to hold it until you unlock the door, take off her winter coat, run to the bathroom, put on the potty seat, and pull down her pants. In fact, more often then not, you will be changing multiple layers of clothes because as you are lifting her onto the toilet seat the pee-pee decides to not only spray her pants, but yours as well—but only on days that you really had to be somewhere on time. And then come the days when your newly-independent toddler is convinced that she can put on her coat by herself—and zip it too. You indulge her briefly, but the tantrum that follows will probably result in her flopping violently on the floor, bumping her head.

Now, not only have you  unsuccessfully secured the coat, but you are rushing to the freezer for a boo-boo bunny and hoping that your hysterical child doesn't hyperventilate and throw up on you. And this is never on a day of casual errands, but probably on the morning that you have an important doctor's appointment at an office with a tight-ass secretary regulating appointment times. ("I'm sorry, but if you're more than 15 minutes late, you must reschedule, that is our office policy," she says pointing to the sign on the sliding glass window separating she and you. You are thinking, "that better be freakin' bullet-proof glass, lady, because not only did I drive 35 minutes to get her but my pants are still damp with pee-pee, so cut me a little slack before you go back to filing your three-inch nails.)

But as often as we mothers can blame our children for our tardiness, yesterday my half-hour delay to work was entirely my fault. As I am locking up the house, my arms layered with graded papers, Cavan and I's breakfast bananas, my cell phone and my coffee, my key slips out of the lock and falls onto the doormat. Well, in a hurry, I lean over to pick it up, spilling the entire contents of my iced coffee onto my coat and khakis. Dummy. Back into the house we go, to change into new pants (not clean pants—I have only a limited number of elastic-waisted maternity slacks—but at least they're not soaking wet), find a new coat, wash off my keys and phone, and then repeat the leaving process again, sans coffee. I felt like Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. I definitely felt like moving to Australia.

The moral of the story. Don't rush. And be considerate of late friends, if you know they have young children at home.