Smug

Yesterday, I finally did it. I have been trying for years to trick myself into being on time. But I am always smarter than myself. I know my clock is set 6 minutes early (and my non-math oriented brain can ALWAYS add those minutes back in my lead time with no thought whatsoever). I know the party really doesn't start on the quarter hour. But yesterday, I did it. And, true to form, both Sam and I were bewildered and uncertain at our uncommon status--EARLY!

My blackberry said Sammy's team soccer pictures started at 6:30 between fields 6 & 7 at the soccer complex. So, as always, we dashed out the door at 6:18 for a 15 minute trek across town which we (also as always) managed to do (accompanied by much swearing, sweating, and the occasional daring traffic maneuver) in just under 12 minutes. We dashed to the picture area to find--nothing. Not a single shark (Sammy's team). What?

My heart fell. I was convinced, of course, that pictures were in fact at 5:30. Or at the Washington Junior High practice field (on the other end of town). Something that explained the inexplicable absence of the rest of Sammy's team.

Then we saw a little boy in the same team colors. "Did you do pictures, yet?" I asked.

"Yeah. A long time ago," he said, with that sort of pitying sneer of the ne'er screw upper.

Sam burst into tears and I started the mental math on what I could do to make up my most recent mommy failure (new legos? happy meals? ice cream after the game?).

But I was still confused. Where was the coach? Where were the rest of the sharks? Something just didn't smell right. And, although perpetually just late (like 5 minutes or less, every time), I am really pretty darn organized. I mean, teachers and coaches know they can count on me. I won't walk in 20 minutes early with freshly painted nails and extra wet wipes. But we'll be there and we'll have what we promised to bring.

So we made our way back to the car to check the copy of the schedule I keep in my van (see? organized). And it said pictures "immediately preceding" the 7p game.

So I was, in a word, stunned. And in another word. Sort of thrilled. So I walked back to the picture area feeling a bit smug and at peace with the world.

We sat on the hillside to wait for our turn before the cameras. And Sam got all confused. "Did we miss it?" he asked, his tear streaked face just too adorable for words.

"No, honey, we're EARLY," I said.

His eyebrows knitted together. "What?" he asked, completely confused. "Where is everybody else?" he asked, now suspicious.

"They're coming," I promised. And we sat and waited. And waited. And waited.

So here is something I would have no reason to really know. Being early kind of sucks. It is boring and it made me all annoyed with the parents dashing in late. So I got a good perspective on me from the other's point of view.

In my constant haste, I always think that early people seem kind of smug, all cool and glancing over their shoulders as you dash in dropping crap and dragging unwilling preschoolers and toddlers with your hair all askew and your eyes wild and darting around apologetically.

And you know what? I sort of felt that way. Smug, I mean. Although I realize that people who are normally on time might not have the same perspective on it that I did--sort of this anthropological analysis of "the other side". But I did feel a little annoyed. I mean, like I didn't have anything better to do than wait for them to show up?

But, of course, being perpetually a member of that "team," I contained my annoyance and smiled my understanding. I get it that the expectations of modern motherhood are completely unrealistic, and that these poor moms have probably just finished ballet, piano and karate, have baked three dozen gluten free cupcakes with team colored frosting, run 15 miles and finished a conference call with India for the multi-million dollar company that they run. So, you know, being late is the least of their problems. Me too.

And for those of you who are normally on time--forgive me. I want to make it there exactly, precisely at the moment these events begin. I don't want to waste your time. I truly don't. But even more I don't want to waste MY time. I left my house in shambles when I left it--my dishes undone (though Chad was there and diligently working to complete them--my hero), my lunch unpacked, my next morning's coffee unmade. And that just KILLS me. I am perpetually haunted by the phrase in scripture that says, "be perfect like your Father in heaven is perfect" (though even I realize that Jesus surely didn't mean an immaculate house, a high paying rock star career and perfect children--at least every day). But my time is my most valuable commodity--the thing of which there is never, ever enough. The thing I crave like a drug. The thing I long for like a lover. So squeezing every teeny second out of every precious day is just my way. It generally puts me just this side of on time to virtually every event I attend. And I am enough of an optimist to assume that every light will always be green, every detail will be remembered, and every child will listen to my every command in record time in the 5 minutes before we leave the house (and, you know, will always be wearing shoes and pants when they climb in the car). So nights like last night will be the exception. And I'll remain apologetic and not smug. Unless I outsmart myself again. And I'm not all that bright, so the odds are good. But I wouldn't hold my breath, either. Someday, I'll be organized and thoughtful enough to be on time every time. How old is Lucy now? So, plan on it in, give or take, about 17 years.