I live in a nuthouse, of which I am, of course, the chief nut.  Mmmm, nuts.  I just started a diet…that sounds good.  Oh, where was I?  Right, a nuthouse.  We are loud and disorderly.    And late.  Always late!  L-A-T-E. 

I just realized that if I added another T, I’d have a latte.  I love lattes.  I wonder if there’s some sort of sick correlation there.  

But I digress.  The point I was eventually going to make is that the members of my loving but goofy family all conspire against each other to ensure that we never arrive anywhere on time, or at least not without a frantic rush.   We cannot seem to pull our family together into a well trained get-your-butt-out-the-door team.   And when our butts do get out the door, it seems somebody always forgot something, has to go poop, feels like hurling, can’t get his/her seatbelt buckled, feels compelled to have a tantrum, and so on.  Since my husband is at his job in San Francisco all day, most of this chaos is usually with Cashew Mom (mmm…) at the helm.  I try.  I swear I try.    

My husband understands in principal, but I’m not sure he understands just how nerve racking it is being me.  Every now and then, I like to give him just a little taste of 24/7 in a Planters can.  (Mixed, salted. Mmmm…. ) 

Take last Thursday, for example: 

My bed was warm and comfy.  Daylight was just beginning to peak under the blinds.  I cracked open an eye and squinted at my watch.  That’s right, I wear my watch to bed.  I’m too nearsighted to see the clock.   6:45. Good, I could log Z’s for another 15 minutes.  

15 minutes later I checked my watch again.  7:30!  Impossible! 

“Aaaargh!”  LATE!  We were going to be LATE!  I flew out of bed, shouting to my husband that we were LATE! LATE! 

I stumbled to my son’s room and shook him awake. 

“Get up, Buddy!  We’re going to be LATE!” 

“Huh?  Ok, I have to go potty.” 

Moments later I simulated a small earthquake with my daughter’s bed as the epicenter to get her moving.  She groaned and rolled over.  The trembler went up a couple of notches on the Richter scale.  

“OK, OK, I’m up!” she said, pulling the covers over her head. 

I yanked the covers off the bed, including the sheet.  Hard to snuggy up now! 

In the next 25 minutes a frantic scuffle ensued, jammies flying hither nither, small socks rudely tugged onto reluctant feet, cereal scarfed, homework hastily crammed into backpacks.  

“OK, let’s go!’ 

“Wait, I can’t find my jacket!” 

“Aaaargh!”  I was beginning to sound like a pirate. 

“What’s going on now?” my husband asked. 

“Jacket, jacket!  She can’t find her jacket!  We’re LATE!” 

“Not my problem”, he said, newspaper under his arm, headed toward the bathroom. 

Whoa!  Hold on there a minute, cowboy!  Not your problem?  Well, I didn’t have time to argue the point, but I was about to give him a problem.  A big one.           

We headed out the door, and started toward school.  We live less than a block away from the elementary school, yet we are always late.  LATE.   And it’s not all mom’s fault, because it’s a hell of a trip down the street.  My oldest son likes school, he just hates the walk.  He thinks I should drive him, but the closest to the school I can get a parking space is two houses down from our own.   We don’t need to drive just to get two houses closer.  

“Owwwie!  My shoes hurt!  My toes feel funny!”  My son stopped mid-sidewalk, looking tortured.  

“What’s wrong with your shoes?  They were fine a minute ago!” 

“I hate these shoes!  They’re too big!  My toes don’t touch this part!” he said, pointing to the tip of his shoes.  “I want my old shoes back!” 

As patiently as I could muster, I explained that when your toes touch the end, your shoes are too small.  That’s why we bought new shoes. 

“If you still don’t like them by the end of the day, you won’t have to keep wearing them, but I think you’ll get used to them. 

Pouty faced and not looking convinced, Jackson hobbled a few steps further. 

He stopped again. 

“Itchy, itchy!  I’m all itchy!  My legs itch!”  He did a wacky sort of dance, hopping and scratching wildly. 

Hmmph.  Must be allergic to walking. 

A little farther down the road he turned up the heat. 

“Ouch!  My penis hurts! My pants are hurting it! Help me!”  he exclaimed, clutching his crotch in feigned agony. 

Good grief!  Maybe he could have said that a little louder.  I don’t think every neighbor heard. 

“Well, if your pants are rubbing, just, well, move it to one side,” I suggested.  Where was my husband when I needed him?  Oh yeah, he was in his “office” with the newspaper, not having a problem.  

“No, you do it!” 

Now that is outside my job description.  And how to explain that if I helped him adjust right there on the street, I feared some passerby would think I was molesting a small boy on his way to school, and call protective services.   But time was tickin’, and I still had to return home and take a toddler to preschool.   Exasperatedly, I turned his back to the street, grabbed the waistband of his Scooby Doo undies, and gave them a good shake. 

“How’s that?” 

“Better, I guess.” 

And so it went.  Eventually we arrived at school.  LATE, but present and accounted for. 

The next day my husband took the kids to school. 

They hadn’t left the porch when he said impatiently  “What’s wrong with it?  Well, just move it until it doesn’t hurt anymore!”  He looked at me with frustration stamped across his face.  He didn’t have time to fool around.  He still had to get to work! 

I looked him square in the eye and closed the door.   I could hear my husband’s irritated voice as they walked down the steps.  “Now what?  There’s nothing wrong with your socks!”  

Smiling, I went to poor myself another cup of coffee.  I was willing to bet they’d crack his shell. 

Not my problem.