A couple of nights ago, Virginie, who has reignited the fires of late night chatter and moving about, came to our room because she was not comfortable in her bed. It turns out that she'd accidentally wet the bed through her night time Pull Up and did not know that she could remove the pad beneath her and get back to the business of sleeping. Sleeping, apparently, was not on her agenda because she got right into our bed, had a few sips of her water, lay down, had a few more sips, lay down and started crying. I rubbed her back and tried to urge her back to sleep but to no avail. She was not comfortable and could not regroup. Around 5:15 am, I felt her body finally relax and she was asleep. What seemed like ten minutes later, the ducks on my iPhone started quacking, signaling wake up time. It was really 7 am. I felt like shit.
Lily, who'd managed to sleep the entire night in her own bed, as she usually does, woke up with a smile and a twinkle in her eye. She was reading quietly until she saw me. The chatter began promptly. Chatter on an adult without enough sleep is a kind of torture, no matter how sweet the voice and lovely the conversation. I grumbled my way through and prepped her breakfast and lunch. Once she was fully dressed, teeth brushed, hair combed and styled, and backpack packed, I got myself dressed enough and took her outside to wait for the bus. Without fanfare, she was picked up and taken off to school leaving me standing in the driveway determined to get Virginie, still asleep, snoring even, to school on time.
Tardiness, being late, not being on time is not only no virtue with the Penns, but I think entire back stories can be created about one's character should one not get "to the church on time." My father and his siblings have got a lock on the "so on time we are early" thing and they are not letting it go. Even as they advance in age, they will be the first to whatever it is, a taco stand, if it weren't so spicy! To get them all together talking about something, conversation will inevitably turn to someone who just "cannot get it together" and a big part of that is being late. So I got it. The message. Loud and clear. Virginie is in pre-school but I have to tell you, there was nothing in me that wanted to see her, tired or not, get to school after 9 am.
At 8:30, when Virginie was still, yes STILL asleep in my bed, I started to panic. Her lunch was packed, clothes laid out, backpack and folder checked and rechecked. I'd left the "hairstyling box" on the table and prepped for what I rightly assumed would be her breakfast, mini-waffles. Then I waited. For about 45 seconds and then started opening blinds, turning on music, whispering in her ear. She was going to school, I knew that, and if I could help it, she was going on time. 8:30 was already cutting it close if she was to actually eat breakfast, get dressed, brush her teeth, and get her hair done. The school is about ten minutes from our house and who knew what kind of impediments there'd be to our travel time. She needed to get up and get it together.
It isn't just about my time. I give that up on a regular basis. But being on time, I have been taught, is a sign of respect, a sign of self-worth and value, a consideration, a gesture of decency. I go insane and act like a monkey if I think we are not going to make it on time. It is a bit embarrassing and completely ridiculous at times, but the message has been implanted. I have a girlfriend who laughed with me one day when I commented on her son's near daily late arrival at school (And no it was not a holier-than-thou comment. I'd told her about my race through town to get Lily to school after a late wake up and how I was ranting about how we could not make that a habit and she said, "We are never on time. I hate it. Being on time that is"). She told me that there was something freeing about breaking the rules, not taking seriously the laws put in place, showing her son that he could come and go on his own time. She was never on time, always behind the eight ball, running, rushing, dropping off and picking up late. Her people seemed to roll with it. Maybe it made them more flexible, less rigid. I'll never know. Punctuality, even with my small people, is important.
That morning Virginie got to school fifteen minutes late. I could not deny her a good breakfast, brushing her teeth at her own pace, selection of shoes to go with her cute outfit, and a little wake up and squeeze time with Mommy. I told her that we wanted to be respectful of her teacher and try to do better next time and she promised she would. I told her that being on time would allow her the extra play in the morning before school got underway. I reminded her of the times we'd arrived promptly to other events and gotten good seating, a free snack, or early prize. She seemed to understand that Mommy built in a little time "just in case" and that getting there early was truly best for Mommy so that she could scope out the place and make sure everything was on the up and up. I was glad to help her make these connections and hoped for myself that I could release myself of some of the rigidity. True, I prefer to get to school, appointments, and parties on time, but I think the scheduled arrival and departure for the 5-hour, open-air concert could be a bit flexible. A work in progress.
I have to give myself and the people the chance to "stop and smell the roses," to slow down sometimes when life allows so we aren't just passing and running and running and passing but enjoying ourselves, each other, and tending to our most basic needs. The savored moments garnered from an unwatched clock can be so delicious. Maybe there is a happy medium or at least space for no tears and no yelling, no stress or anxiety. My tightly wound clock will surely teach the girls to respect theirs and others' time, but I hope to give them some moments so warm and wonderful that time stands still.
(c) Copyright 2013. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
No comments:
Post a Comment