Mornings. Ugh. Where do I even start? One of my followers, Amy from Mom Goes On, commented the other day about how weekends exist in an alternate universe where time goes by much faster. I would add that mornings exist in that alternate universe as well. It doesn’t seem to matter how early I get up, I always feel rushed in the morning.
I usually set my alarm for 6:20am and we have to leave the house to get Charlotte to school by about 8:20. That’s two hours to get myself and the girls, fed, dressed, and out the door. It seems like it should be more than enough time for us to get ready, but inevitably, at 8:10, I am cleaning up an explosive poopy diaper, and Charlotte can’t find her hat/mittens/neckwarmer/bookbag and Mark can’t find his keys/wallet/phone and I am being pulled in three directions at once and time is ticking by. I end up ushering everyone out the door and impatiently exclaiming at least half a dozen times on our walk to school, “Come ON! Hurry up!” We haven’t actually been late yet, but I fear for that day when we arrive at school and everyone is already inside.
And weekends somehow are even worse. Every Friday night, I think, “Yes, it’s the weekend, no morning rush for two days!” But Charlotte has ballet on Saturdays and soccer on Sundays, and even though they start a bit later in the morning, I always have to rush even more to get there. Last Saturday, five minutes before we were supposed to leave, I was running around the house, searching for Charlotte’s tights and leotard, only to discover them in the bottom of the laundry hamper, still unwashed from the week before. Oops. And so I ended up running down the street to the studio, dragging Charlotte along with me, who was complaining that she would rather have Daddy take her to dance class. Yeah, kid, I would rather that too.
It doesn’t help matters that I have an almost pathological need to be on time/early for things. And I am married to a man who does not particularly worry about such things. I’ve started telling him we have to leave at least a half hour earlier than we actually do whenever we have plans to go somewhere, because I know if I tell him we have to leave at 2pm, we won’t be out of the house until at least 2:30.
All this rushing around and worrying about be late causes me so much stress and anxiety, and the reality is, we are almost never late for anything, and even if we were, what is the big deal? Being late once in awhile is not the end of the world. I’m thinking maybe I should heed Elsa’s advice, and just let it go.
What are mornings like in your house? Does anyone else rush around like a madwoman, trying to get out of the house on time?