For reasons that shall soon become apparent, I am not an organized person. I am the product of two worlds colliding with a quiet, WASP-like implosion (you know, without the Protestant, or the fine bourbon). My mother, God love her, has, after nearly 50 years of marriage finally figured out that in order to be places on time, one must leave one's house BEFORE the required arrival time. My father, who is actively earning Purgatory Points every time my mother is late, is mostly German. That's right, folks, he's descended from a line of people so freaking organized that they invaded France TWICE. In the same century. The point is, that their unholy union resulted in me (and my siblings of course, but whose blog is this anyway?). That means that at my core, I know
that in order to be some place on time, I need to give myself 15 extra minutes to get out the door with my three (yeah that's right, it's been a busy five years, hardy har har) kids, because the good Lord knows that it is never as easy as just putting on coats and shoes and walking out the door. Case in point: yesterday my husband calls while I'm out gardening with the kids (a major accomplishment in and of itself, and one NOT likely to repeat itself this year) and asks me if we would like to come get him at the metro and have a nice day out, seeing as he has gotten out of work a little early. Well, HECK YEAH! It's a gorgeous day, the metro is a 20 minute drive away, maybe a little less when there's no traffic, and we've got 45 minutes before my husband's train arrives. However
my son and daughter have been gardening for the past two hours. They are covered in dirt, leaves, etc., I didn't shower this morning because, well, gardening! After having three kids, I'm a LOT less vain than I used to be, and will often leave the house with unwashed hair, if it's not too bad. However
, there is now what I will call gardening detritus in my hair, because my daughter's aim when she flings dirt with her little pink shovel is all too accurate, and my son got a little over-enthusiastic when it came to shaking the dead leaves off our giant azalea bush. But, I figure, the older kids can change their clothes themselves while I wash out the twigs and dirt and change the baby. The first part of the plan works well - with minor quibbling, the kids are in less encrusted clothing and sent downstairs to wrestle on some shoes. My hair is clean and wrapped in a towel to dry a little while I change Baby Girl...look at me, all time efficient and stuff, letting my hair towel dry a bit before I hit it with the hair dryer....OH DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN, WHAT IS THAT UNHOLY SMELL???? No, she was just wet, right? RIGHT???? Why is there a giant baby-poo colored patch on my bed? Why is Baby Girl's back wet and gross to her neck???
20 minutes later, I am blow-drying my hair (really at this point just so I won't look like a crazy person and scare all the nice businessmen at the metro), finally, and hollering for the kids to meet me by the door as I rush downstairs, I am greeted by my oldest standing by the door in his bare feet
. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the SIX YEAR OLD had somehow interpreted my direction to go put his shoes on right now as, "in your own good time, when you finished drawing, or whatever". My daughter's shoes were on. They were on the wrong feet, but they were on. She's three. FINE. I will yell later, and right now I can use the time that he's putting on his shoes to crate the dog (did I mention the dog?). Finally we tumble out of the house, 5 minutes
before my husband's train is due. But, there is hope! Traffic is light, so we get there "only"10 minutes late. I pull in, and almost immediately get a text from the love of my life, "BTW, train late, don't rush." This is my life. And this is why my blog is five years behind.