Child nearly tardy… on Dad’s watch

Alternative working title: Procrastination, part 2. (See earlier post on procrastination.)

One night, to my great surprise, Olivia requested I set her alarm for an HOUR earlier. I know of no nine-year-old who asks to get up earlier than necessary. Or adult, for that matter.

What we do in the mornings is sufficient, if everyone moves like a well-oiled machine. We have maybe ten minute of pad built in, but 60 minutes? Pshaw.

Who is she kidding? For years, it’s been a struggle just to get her out of bed, and this is a kid who gets ten hours a night. For real. 

“What for?” I asked Olivia. “Are you now wanting to have time to watch a show in the morning?”

“No. I was nearly tardy for class today,” she admitted.

WHAT?? I dropped her off today.

We even left the house one minute early. I remember being proud of us. I’m a stickler for leaving exactly on time, if not earlier. 

Then, right after I got out of the car to walk her to class, she told me I could go home now because she wanted to walk with her friends. I hugged her and she ran off.

“So, are you dilly dallying with your friends too much before class?” I quizzed.

She promised she was not. She explained, in the charmingly tedious way children do, every little detail of what she did with the ten minutes before the bell rang.

Yet she was nearly late. 

“How come whenever I walk you to class, you’re on time?” I persisted. I’ve been doing this same little routine for three years. (Kindergarten, first grade, and now, fourth grade. Not the two years in between, when I had shift work.)

So our little circular conversation continued a few more times with me asking, “If it’s not my fault and it’s not your fault, why did you miss the first bell?”

I’m all confused and getting annoyed by now, when she pauses and realized, “Oh! That was yesterday!”

Immediately, I calm down. “Oh, yeah. That makes perfect sense. Dad took you yesterday and I remember hollering to him in the garage why he was so late. He was six minutes late at that point,” I said.

Yup: Husband = Procrastination. Of course.

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