Time Management

Time Management

The line between being good parenting and horrible parenting can be a bit blurry.  Being a good parent can sometimes feel horrible, and being a horrible parent can sometimes feel fantastic. For Example, it feels terrible when I tell my 3 year old, Stella, that it’s too late for her to have a cookie and then she gives me the quivering bottom lip, or worse, runs upstairs and cries with her sweet little face in her hands. 

On the other hand it feels great when I tell Stella to make herself her own peanut butter and jelly sandwich because Daddy’s too busy setting his fantasy football lineup for the weekend.  I digress….

On Wednesday nights, Rach and I have a small group at the church.  We scheduled it on Wednesdays because it's the same time that the kids go to Fuel, our teen ministry.  Of all of our kids, Scarlett enjoys Fuel the most.  She's our little social butterfly.  No, really, she dressed up for Halloween this year as a Social Butterfly.  (She's very clever). 

So last night we were getting ready to leave and Scarlett was not downstairs. 

Side note:  Getting ready to leave at our house is a giant mess 100% of the time.  We hardly ever know how many cars we have to take, which kids are coming with us, who has to go where after, which cars have car seats in them, how many of our kids have friends over, who has shoes on, etc, etc. So we view our downstairs as kind of like a doctor's office waiting room.  Maybe you’re waiting 10 minutes, maybe it’s 2 hours.  Either way, it's always a point of contention.

Side Side note:   We are late to our destination approximately 85% of the time.  (FYI, 50% of all statistics are made up) The reason we are late so often is that Rach thinks we have a magic carpet, or a teleportation device or something.  If we have to be somewhere for noon, we leave at noon.  If we have to be there at 11, we leave at 11.  It doesn't matter how close or far away the destination is, Rach thinks we can get there in zero minutes.  Unfortunately, the magic carpet gene is hereditary.  Scarlett is a carrier.  

So back to the story.  We're walking out the door, I'm holding Stella, Rach is holding Stella's shoes, Gavin is holding Rach's purse, and so I yell up the stairs to Scarlett that we're leaving.  We all file into the clown car, get Stella buckled, etc, then I turn around, "Where's Scarlett?"  I look back and get nothing but shoulder shrugs as if I asked who left their plate on the counter.  Rach and I proceed to have this conversation (Now keep in mind that at this point it is 6:45, we’re supposed to be there at 6:45, and our magic carpet is in the shop so it’ll take us 15-20 minutes to get there)

          Rach: Did you tell her we were leaving?

          Me: I yelled up to her. 

          Rach: Well she knows what time we have to leave.

          Me: She was downstairs earlier.  Should we leave her?

          Rach: It’s up to you.

          Me: We’re going to be late.

          Rach: It’s up to you.  I don’t care either way.

          Me (starts to back out of the driveway): You sure?

          Rach: It doesn’t matter.

So we left.  And I’m driving down the road, just conflicted as all get out in my head, “It’s probably the right thing to do, right?  No, that’s mean.  But it will teach her a lesson about punctuality.  Or it will teach her to hate your guts.  At least she’ll hate both Rach and I…” Just then Rach’s phone rings and it’s Scarlett trying to Facetime.  Crap! Rach answers, immediately points the phone at me and says, “Look, your dad is driving.  He left you.”  Ruthless!! So she hands me the phone and now I have to look her in the eye as I give her the crap dad lecture about how she knows what time we have to leave, and we’re going to be late, and responsibility, shmesponsibility, blah, blah, blah, I am a horrible person.  

One more side note: When I was a kid, the idea of video telephone calls seemed amazing. 1980s movies about the future always featured video phone calls as if to say 'Look how cool the future is going to be!' I waited so long for it to exist, and now I'm stuck using FaceTime to awkwardly stare at my 13 year old as she shoots evil eye daggers back at me. Screw you technology. 

Anyway, I try to talk myself into the possibility that maybe she’ll learn a lesson about being on time, and this will resonate into her adult life.  Then I resigned to the fact that it’s more likely that she’ll be on her psychiatrist’s couch in twenty years trying to pinpoint where it all went wrong.  But maybe, just maybe, she’ll be on time to that appointment.  Small victories.