“I’m late/I’m late/For a very important date/No time to say ‘hello’/Goodbye/I’m late, I’m late, I’m late”
The White Rabbit, from Disney’s Alice in Wonderland
I’m going on record with something just a bit embarrassing. When I was a teenager, I was always late. I took forever in the bathroom, painstakingly applying green eye shadow and too much blush. I took hours to do my hair. Getting dressed required multiple costume changes. It drove my parents insane.
Today, I am a reformed late-o-holic. I am on time for everything. Sometimes I’m even (gasp) early. And I have tried to instill this in my son.
Yeah, that’s turn out to be a massive parenting fail.
I don’t know what it is about my teenager, but that boy is late to everything. And I mean everything. Except dinner. He’s always on time to dinner. And lunch. Breakfast, not so much, mainly because that would require that he get up before lunch on weekends and before the car leaves to take him to school on weekdays (no, we don’t have bus service).
I’ve tried everything to make him on time. Nothing works. I’ve tried getting him up 15 minutes early—but that doesn’t work. Frankly, just getting him out of bed requires two alarm clocks, the shutters being opened and No-no Lulu trying to excavate the contents of his nose with her tongue before he will finally get his butt out of bed.
And once he is up, the real fun begins. He takes hours to decide what to wear to school; a remarkable feat considering his entire wardrobe consists of jeans, shorts and t-shirts. And the t-shirts are all white, black or gray. Oh, fine. He has a couple of teal ones and a red one, but honestly? Don’t all of those colors match with jeans? And please don’t ask—yes, I have told him to pick out his clothing the night before. He changes his mind in the morning.
Once he’s decided what to wear, there’s breakfast. Come on. It’s eggs and a couple pieces of microwaved sausage, for pete’s sake. How hard can that be to make and then eat? You’d think he was Gordon Ramsey, preparing a meal for a food critic. Takes forever to make and tastes just the same as anything I could throw together in two seconds for him. Okay, fine. His isn’t burnt, but still. It’s eggs and sausage.
Then there is the brushing of the teeth and hair. For heaven’s sake, the freaking toothbrush turns off after two minutes. So what the heck is he doing in that bathroom? I mean, how long can it take to put toothpaste on a toothbrush and clean your teeth? And he has short hair. It’s not like he’s blow drying it then using a curling iron on it. He doesn’t even use gel.
And yet, every single morning, he runs late.
And it gets worse. Anytime we go anywhere—and I mean ANYWHERE—he is the last one in the car. Sometimes, we are leaving the driveway when he’s just ambling out the door and locking it. It’s enough to make a reformed late-o-holic go insane.
And it’s not like he’s being a defiant little brat. Look, I’m not dragging him away from his PS3 or his computer or whatever. He seriously moves at a snail’s pace. Once I tell him we are leaving, he shuts everything down. Then he has to use the restroom. And then he’s got to find his phone. And his shoes. And possibly a pair of socks. And then he checks his hair. And by then he has to use the bathroom again.
He’s like a giant two year old.
But I have a solution. Starting today, I’m just going to yell “dinner’s ready” whenever I need him to come downstairs. That should make him get a move on.Add me to your rss reader | Become a Fan on Facebook!