I am in awe of people, parents especially, who remain sanguine about time. Even when late, even when running in the drizzle to get to school before the doors shut, some parents appear good humored. I've seen women laughing while running with backpacks and lunch boxes dangling off of them. Men have commented, amusedly, on their children's rain gear.
I saw these things this morning even, when I peered out from under my foul cloud of bad mood and frizzed damp hair.
I hate being late, and I am an awful person when the children make us late. I am awful to them as a collective, urging them to "hurry uuuup" in a voice like an amplified mosquito.
I should really be selectively awful, for this morning Clara was very good and did not deserve mosquito-voice. Winton, however, has been experimenting with peeing his pants and lying about it to see if he can get away with it. My discovery, on putting on his shoes 2 minutes after we are supposed to have left, that his pants, shirt, underpants and snuggle blankie (Neh Neh) were all urine-sopped delayed our departure quite a bit. He deserved mosquito-voice.
Since school (Kindergarten and my academic school year) began I am in adrenaline-heavy race-track mode. I am always rushing, and am always herding the children along wanting things to go faster faster faster. It's awful. Funny to watch, I bet.
I'd very much like it if I could convince myself that being late didn't matter. That would help.
It would also help if I could convince myself that it didn't matter if I didn't finish prepping my classes or grading my papers, or dealing with the incessant "bing" of incoming email.