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My daughter is in first grade and wouldn't you know time is on the curriculum. Teaching time to six and seven-year-old children is a fundamental key to our society's puzzle, without it we are left in the dark. The ability to measure time allows for an organized and smooth flow to our existence, and while telling time is a cinch, being on time is not. People are always running late. Some people, (you know who you are) are chronically late. I do not exclude myself from this punctually impaired group. In fact, at one time, I most assuredly would have been eligible to open my own chapter of the chronic late club.

Dashing about, screaming orders, white-knuckle grips on the steering wheel are all hallmarks of  lateness. It is no fun to be late, especially when you are a kid. Traumatizing, anxiety inducing- not a great way to start the day.

Growing up, I knew nothing of being on time. The main reason for this punctually challenged state, unfortunately, was my mother. (I know, I will get flack for this, but, I was a kid, so let the chips fall where they may.) Now that I look back, and have children of my own, I am sure my mother endured plenty of tsk-tsk head shaking by the school secretary. Anyhow, arriving late to school continued throughout my elementary school days, and did not improve.

By the time high school began, I was used to being late. This unfortunately resulted in numerous trips to the Vice Principal's office. “You have a lot of tardies,” I was informed. No kidding. As punishment I was given a week’s worth of early morning detentions. Now, the school was about two miles away from my house, and seeing as it was the middle of February, and any real comparison to the Siberian tundra is warranted, there was no way I was going to attempt such a trek on foot. This left the prompt delivery of the detainee up to the grand poo-bah of lateness: my mother. If my mother could not get me there at 9:00 am what made them think she could make the 7:30 am detention time? Naturally, I gained special access to the breakfast club, i.e., Saturday detention. Believe me, Judd Nelson and company were nowhere to be found.

When I became a young adult, I naturally followed in her tardy footsteps. People would be annoyed, huffing and puffing, eh, it did not really phase me. After all, I had mall hair to style. Sure, I felt bad- at that time, but not bad enough to change. Then I had my son. Talk about change. Doctor appointments have a way of making you late, especially with a baby and all of baby doom in tow. Do you have any idea how hard the office staff comes down on late arrivals?

Despite my baby's obvious cuteness, our appointment was whisked away, and I had the added pleasure of doing it all over again for the next appointment. Begrudgingly, I, Mrs. Tardy Pants, was beginning to grasp the furor over lateness and the significance of timeliness.

In comes my husband: The Alexander the Great of tardiness. Once, he arrived two hours late for a date. I could not have slammed that door any harder. You would think such a nasty trait would be a deal breaker, but somehow, someway, (those smoldering eyes,) his lateness won me over. In fact, the impetus for this article is Alexander himself. He makes me kooky crazy with his complete and udder incapability to arrive on time. He does not discriminate in his chosen specialty. I have tried to wrap my head around this impairment. It makes me cranky. I have tried the soft approach, such as, gritting my teeth, and slowly, uttering, “we need to leave in such and such hour, um, can you get ready?” Or, the high pitched, totally falling into the depths of your anger, “WE ARE L-A-T-E- @#%$#!”

This particular approach is not so well received. I have even tried lying. You know, telling him we need to be somewhere earlier than we need to be. It did not take him long to catch on to that one. Now, he ask, “what time do we really need to be there?” Can you imagine? No good comes from any of my methods. He views my annoyance with his lateness as perplexing, which by the way boils my blood. He feels I should accept and go on. On this particular puppy, I am digging in my heels. Late= bad. Simple formula. A no brainer. But the battle rages on.

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