The fine art of being five minutes late.
Being five minutes late, I’ve come to realise, is quite an art really – especially in these parts where “being on time” is a given. In my new “yoga-Zen” like state, I’m trying really hard not to get troubled by things that, in a house with four children, are beyond my control – like scuffed, scratched and chipped freshly plastered walls, grubby finger-prints on walls or R’s special “dinning room” graffiti.
As part of this new me I’ve come to the holistic realisation that being five minutes late is not really a problem. I’m trying to teach this concept to G – but given that he has even more Germanic genes in him than I he is finding it hard to understand. For example, just as it is becoming totally obvious that we will not be able to reach the allocated departure time, he begins to tense up, clench is hands into a claw and develop a crazed look in his eyes – a look that K. and L. (it has to be said) are very good at imitating.
“We’re going to be late again. We’re going to be late again.” he mutters - more to himself than anyone else since no one is listening.
In any case, I’ve decided that being five minutes late is an innate and inalienable part of being me. Even if we were to live on the school’s doorstep we would still be five minutes late. The 8.25 start is just too much for us – a bit like trying to squeeze into a size 8 corset. Possible, possibly, with much taking in of breath, discomfort and high blood pressure. Successful, perhaps 10% of the time. For the rest too much of a challenge.
In any case being five minutes late, I’ve convinced myself, is elegant, tasteful and respectful. Personally I love it when people give me a five minute margin – its amazing the things one can pack into this time frame. Tidy up the kitchen, put a laundry on and even have time for a cuppa. Those who turn up on the dot, however, may find me totally and utterly unprepared.
Being fifteen to twenty minutes late, though, is taking the biscuit, bordering on the rude and inconsiderate – and taking the biscuit is exactly what happened to me this morning.
G. had to be in Brussels early this morning. To avoid the predicted jams he woke me up with a flask of coffee at 5.30 a.m. saying:
“I’m off now. Shall I call in half an hour to wake you up?”
“No” I mumbled “I’ll be alright. Thanks for the coffee. Drive carefully.”
Two hours later I was woken up with a:
“Mummy, I didn’t do pippi in my bed. R. is a really big boy. Cooool.”
Through one bleary eye I registered that R. was leaning over me with just his pyjama top on. I looked at the clock and saw that it was 7.21. I managed to gulp down a mug of coffee, which was very reviving, and left R. in our bed, happily munching on a biscuit.
Upstairs the other three woke up slowly and began getting ready. R. on the other hand, who had settled comfortably in our bed was having nothing to do with getting dressed and made a perfect nuisance of himself. Every time I put a sock on he would pull it off and when I tried to put his top on he’d go as stiff as a plank making it impossible to progress.
Realising that this was a situation “beyond my control” I decided to come back to it later and headed downstairs where K.M. had laid the table but was bickering with L.
“Mummy, L. showed me the finger AND she said the F. word.”
“Yes, but you hurt me K.M. You pushed me against the wall.”
“L. you know that the F. word is an ugly word and we don’t use it ever in this house. Do you ever hear Mummy and Daddy using that language? Hmmm? K.M. try not to hurt L. I have seen you push her quite a lot recently.”
L. crossed her arms in a humph and stuck her tongue out at K.M. In the meantime I started to make sandwiches for L. and R. The other two could order sandwiches at school – as long as we got there before 8.25 when they stopped taking orders.
“Mummy I don’t like those biscuits with chocolate bits on them. Can I have a different one for school.”
“Well, I’m not sure if I have enough of the other ones – honestly its difficult to cater for all your biscuits. We always seem to run out.”
“Why?”
“Well, we’re asked to provide you with two snacks a day – so four times two is ..”
“Eight.”
“Good and eight times five is …”
“Forty …
“Good and forty times four is …
“Err .. 160 …!”
“Correct so in a month we have to buy 160 biscuits for you that come in packs of two. Quite a lot huh.”
“Yes”
“K.M. would you mind running upstairs and seeing what R. is up to. He’ll have missed breakfast by now.” In the background the church clocks were chiming 8.00 a.m. – always the sign for us to hurry up.
Five minutes later K.M. came down:
“Mummy R. has done kaka but its all over the floor. I think he had an accident and is trying to wipe it up.”
“Oh no! J. would you mind putting the biscuits and sandwiches into the bags for me while I go and clean upstairs.”
Upstairs in the bathroom it was like a scene from a horror movies. Brown kaka everywhere. R. to be fair had tried to do it on the loo but only a fraction of it had landed where it was supposed to – the rest was just about everywhere else – on the toilet seat, down his leg, on the floor, on the wall by the toilet paper, on his hands ...
By the time that I had showered him down and put fresh clothing on we were already 15 minutes late. Downstairs J. had forgotten to put the biscuits and sandwiches in their satchels, the dog was barking frantically by the back door and L. still hadn’t put her shoes on.
“Mummy where are my black winter boots? I want to put those on today.”
“L. they have been put somewhere in the cellar – heavens knows where and its not that cold today. Can you please just put your brown shoes on?”
“Mummy!” L. said in exasperation and close to tears. “Its freezing cold outside. I need my winter boots.”
“L. – its May and although cooler it is not freezing. Just put your brown shoes on please. We are already horribly late. If we don’t make it on time. J. and K. won’t be able to order their sandwiches for lunch.”
In the meantime I busied myself trying to get R.s shoes on and help J. get the satchels ready for school. Phew nearly all ready. I saw L. stubbornly refusing to put her brown shoes on and certainly not ready to get out of the door.
“Mummy. Mummy. K.M. was saying in the back ground. “Belle has chewed through the strap on my satchel so I can’t carry it properly.” I saw that her really expensive school satchel (a gift from her Godfather Uncle Ronald for her communion) was frayed and broken at one end. “Honestly – that dog …..”
The stress of getting up late, dealing with bickering kids, cleaning up a smelly R., seeing K.M's bag horribly mutilated by Belle, L. refusing to put her shoes on and being fifteen minutes late got too much and the new yoga-me just collapsed.
“Of for F….’s sake L. – we are already horribly late. Just PUT your brown shoes on. NOW!”
I grabbed her, rather ungently and carried her towards the front door where her shoes were lying. As I did so I tripped up on the wheel of the buggy and just about managed to prevent us from crashing into the wall.
By this time L. was wailing and saying:
“I hate you Mummy! I hate you Mummy!”
In the end we were fifteen minutes late. This was not elegant, tasteful or respectful. It was a nuisance for all concerned. Still, R. going upstairs to do his big job was beyond my control – if he had come downstairs I could have prevented the accident. In any case J. and K.M. still managed to put an order in for the sandwiches.
As I was dropping her off L. looked at me and said “I’m sorry Mummy” to which I replied. “No I’m sorry L. Mummy shouldn’t have lost her rag.”
When I walked back into the kitchen, in between all the mess, I saw L.s lunch pack sitting on the side. We must have forgotten to put it in her satchel in all the kafuffle.
As part of this new me I’ve come to the holistic realisation that being five minutes late is not really a problem. I’m trying to teach this concept to G – but given that he has even more Germanic genes in him than I he is finding it hard to understand. For example, just as it is becoming totally obvious that we will not be able to reach the allocated departure time, he begins to tense up, clench is hands into a claw and develop a crazed look in his eyes – a look that K. and L. (it has to be said) are very good at imitating.
“We’re going to be late again. We’re going to be late again.” he mutters - more to himself than anyone else since no one is listening.
In any case, I’ve decided that being five minutes late is an innate and inalienable part of being me. Even if we were to live on the school’s doorstep we would still be five minutes late. The 8.25 start is just too much for us – a bit like trying to squeeze into a size 8 corset. Possible, possibly, with much taking in of breath, discomfort and high blood pressure. Successful, perhaps 10% of the time. For the rest too much of a challenge.
In any case being five minutes late, I’ve convinced myself, is elegant, tasteful and respectful. Personally I love it when people give me a five minute margin – its amazing the things one can pack into this time frame. Tidy up the kitchen, put a laundry on and even have time for a cuppa. Those who turn up on the dot, however, may find me totally and utterly unprepared.
Being fifteen to twenty minutes late, though, is taking the biscuit, bordering on the rude and inconsiderate – and taking the biscuit is exactly what happened to me this morning.
G. had to be in Brussels early this morning. To avoid the predicted jams he woke me up with a flask of coffee at 5.30 a.m. saying:
“I’m off now. Shall I call in half an hour to wake you up?”
“No” I mumbled “I’ll be alright. Thanks for the coffee. Drive carefully.”
Two hours later I was woken up with a:
“Mummy, I didn’t do pippi in my bed. R. is a really big boy. Cooool.”
Through one bleary eye I registered that R. was leaning over me with just his pyjama top on. I looked at the clock and saw that it was 7.21. I managed to gulp down a mug of coffee, which was very reviving, and left R. in our bed, happily munching on a biscuit.
Upstairs the other three woke up slowly and began getting ready. R. on the other hand, who had settled comfortably in our bed was having nothing to do with getting dressed and made a perfect nuisance of himself. Every time I put a sock on he would pull it off and when I tried to put his top on he’d go as stiff as a plank making it impossible to progress.
Realising that this was a situation “beyond my control” I decided to come back to it later and headed downstairs where K.M. had laid the table but was bickering with L.
“Mummy, L. showed me the finger AND she said the F. word.”
“Yes, but you hurt me K.M. You pushed me against the wall.”
“L. you know that the F. word is an ugly word and we don’t use it ever in this house. Do you ever hear Mummy and Daddy using that language? Hmmm? K.M. try not to hurt L. I have seen you push her quite a lot recently.”
L. crossed her arms in a humph and stuck her tongue out at K.M. In the meantime I started to make sandwiches for L. and R. The other two could order sandwiches at school – as long as we got there before 8.25 when they stopped taking orders.
“Mummy I don’t like those biscuits with chocolate bits on them. Can I have a different one for school.”
“Well, I’m not sure if I have enough of the other ones – honestly its difficult to cater for all your biscuits. We always seem to run out.”
“Why?”
“Well, we’re asked to provide you with two snacks a day – so four times two is ..”
“Eight.”
“Good and eight times five is …”
“Forty …
“Good and forty times four is …
“Err .. 160 …!”
“Correct so in a month we have to buy 160 biscuits for you that come in packs of two. Quite a lot huh.”
“Yes”
“K.M. would you mind running upstairs and seeing what R. is up to. He’ll have missed breakfast by now.” In the background the church clocks were chiming 8.00 a.m. – always the sign for us to hurry up.
Five minutes later K.M. came down:
“Mummy R. has done kaka but its all over the floor. I think he had an accident and is trying to wipe it up.”
“Oh no! J. would you mind putting the biscuits and sandwiches into the bags for me while I go and clean upstairs.”
Upstairs in the bathroom it was like a scene from a horror movies. Brown kaka everywhere. R. to be fair had tried to do it on the loo but only a fraction of it had landed where it was supposed to – the rest was just about everywhere else – on the toilet seat, down his leg, on the floor, on the wall by the toilet paper, on his hands ...
By the time that I had showered him down and put fresh clothing on we were already 15 minutes late. Downstairs J. had forgotten to put the biscuits and sandwiches in their satchels, the dog was barking frantically by the back door and L. still hadn’t put her shoes on.
“Mummy where are my black winter boots? I want to put those on today.”
“L. they have been put somewhere in the cellar – heavens knows where and its not that cold today. Can you please just put your brown shoes on?”
“Mummy!” L. said in exasperation and close to tears. “Its freezing cold outside. I need my winter boots.”
“L. – its May and although cooler it is not freezing. Just put your brown shoes on please. We are already horribly late. If we don’t make it on time. J. and K. won’t be able to order their sandwiches for lunch.”
In the meantime I busied myself trying to get R.s shoes on and help J. get the satchels ready for school. Phew nearly all ready. I saw L. stubbornly refusing to put her brown shoes on and certainly not ready to get out of the door.
“Mummy. Mummy. K.M. was saying in the back ground. “Belle has chewed through the strap on my satchel so I can’t carry it properly.” I saw that her really expensive school satchel (a gift from her Godfather Uncle Ronald for her communion) was frayed and broken at one end. “Honestly – that dog …..”
The stress of getting up late, dealing with bickering kids, cleaning up a smelly R., seeing K.M's bag horribly mutilated by Belle, L. refusing to put her shoes on and being fifteen minutes late got too much and the new yoga-me just collapsed.
“Of for F….’s sake L. – we are already horribly late. Just PUT your brown shoes on. NOW!”
I grabbed her, rather ungently and carried her towards the front door where her shoes were lying. As I did so I tripped up on the wheel of the buggy and just about managed to prevent us from crashing into the wall.
By this time L. was wailing and saying:
“I hate you Mummy! I hate you Mummy!”
In the end we were fifteen minutes late. This was not elegant, tasteful or respectful. It was a nuisance for all concerned. Still, R. going upstairs to do his big job was beyond my control – if he had come downstairs I could have prevented the accident. In any case J. and K.M. still managed to put an order in for the sandwiches.
As I was dropping her off L. looked at me and said “I’m sorry Mummy” to which I replied. “No I’m sorry L. Mummy shouldn’t have lost her rag.”
When I walked back into the kitchen, in between all the mess, I saw L.s lunch pack sitting on the side. We must have forgotten to put it in her satchel in all the kafuffle.
posted by Kathleen at 9:34 AM
1 Comments:
oh no - Kathleen - just reading that made my blood pressure rise - you really are one amazing woman!!
And I agree about the five minutes late thing - I am know for squeezing in a last nescafe as the rest of the family are strapping themselves into car seats, lol
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