After spending a few days watching all these jazzed up joggers run past my house in their new-with-tags spandex, it finally dawned on me that maybe we were supposed to make some New Year’s resolutions, too.
“Nah,” my 11-year-old snorted, “we’re all going to die this year anyway. Let’s just have fun.”
While the Mayan calendar illuminates her life, mine was printed somewhere in China. There, they have New Year’s celebrations that probably demand the submission of one, five, and 10-year goal charts before there will be any dancing with dragons. Stinkin’ overachievers.
Guess I should try to keep up anyway and make some goals, even if I am a few days late. Which brings me to an idea ... what if 2012 marked THE YEAR WE SHOWED UP ON TIME?
It’s been 10 years since I’ve heard a welcoming remark, opening prayer, or the national anthem. Yep, we’re that family. Straggling in right before halftime, with half of us needing a hairbrush, the other half missing a shoe. But now that my kids all walk and pee on their own, the usual cop-outs for being late (leakage, puke, blowout) no longer work.
So let’s evaluate. It could happen. We could find a parking space.
But wait. Before we dial Timex, I must envision the family battle said punctuality will entail.
In the right corner ... my husband. A wannabe Pacific Islander, he could be the only person on earth who actually sets his watch to be five minutes slow. It’s hard to hurry up someone whose theme song is “Hakuna Matata.”
And in the left ... we’ve got Blake, our own personal Sofia Vergara. He wakes up having slept in his school clothes, backpack already on, and proceeds to squawk “Can we go now?” every 30 seconds until I finally drop him off at kindergarten 15 minutes early just so I can remove my earplugs.
I did this to him. Because he’s the same kid who once climbed in the car for our trip to the mall, and asked if we were late. When I explained you can’t be late to the mall, he said, “But every time I get in the car, you say we’re late.”
As if there’s something wrong with that. So I guess the real battle lies within me. I’m always five minutes late. Give or take 20.
Can’t I just be okay with that? Why break a family tradition? One that’s been passed down from every slow-rolling and overbooked relative I have, besides Grandpa Davis the Marine (“Five minutes early is 10 minutes late.”) After 13 years, should I buck a system absorbed from my spouse when, as a doe-eyed newlywed, I conceded to the fact that to preserve marital harmony, I’ll always be seated in the overflow?
Breaking this cycle could result in stress, duress, not to mention a lot of sitting around waiting for everyone else to show up. You can ask Grandpa Davis how fun that is.
Let’s face it, I’m no tiger mom. I better belong on a Pacific island. So it’s time to erase my 5-year-old’s anxiety: I hereby resolute to stop pronouncing we are late. Even though we are.
And what if the Mayans are right? What if this year’s going to end in one big blowout? You go ahead and save me a seat, because I’m totally fine showing up late for that party.
No comments:
Post a Comment