I looked at my watch. Dammit. I was going to be late to pick my daughter from her preschool. This was only her fourth day. What a start. I did the only thing a desperate mommy could do. I ran. I don’t know about you, but in my experience, you do not want to be running unless dressed in the appropriate attire and mostly I mean the running shoes and ahem, sports bra. Inevitably you end up looking like a crazed woman. Living downtown, with all kinds of people bustling about the streets, I suppose no one would really notice or care. I didn’t really care either, well as long as no one I knew saw me.
The school isn’t too far from where I live, about a 15 minute bus or subway ride away. I did a mental ‘Sherlock’, visualizing the traffic and intellectually (ha! not really) deducing the quickest way to reach my tiny tot. I ran towards the bus. Wrong choice. Dammit. A group of people had already assembled by the stop and by the annoyed looks on their faces I could tell that this bus was running late. Arrgh..Why was this happening to me? I wanted to kick something. I may as well have, it would have gone well with the Crazy written all over me. Ouch. And now I had a stitch in my side. I scanned up and down the street, a damsel in distress, desperately hoping for my bus in shiny covered advertisements to come save me. Suddenly a snide voice inside my head spoke. “You’re pathetic woman, you can push a melon head baby out of your lemon sized ho hum without a freaking epidural and this is the moment you succumb to weakness?” This was always my go to example in moments of crisis. I shook my head. Think woman think. And there it was, all orange and green. I flagged the taxi cab down (if I could whistle I would’ve done so. I imagined I did) and jumped in and told the driver to make like a tree and leave??
As we approached a red light, I told him to pull up by the corner near the school. I ran again, like it was the Olympics and I was Usain Bolt trying to beat my own record for the sake of my pride. I pulled open the door, heart pounding, hair disheveled, and clothes in disarray. Red faced and panting like a dog, seriously out of shape, I looked up at the clock. Dammit. I was 5 minutes early. I silently cursed a slew of desi unmentionable and certainly untranslatable words under my breath, the stitch on my side still jabbing at me.
Suddenly, I was very aware of the other mothers looking at me slightly confused. Despite my embarrassment, I held my head high, walked all the way inside and was met by my daughter who ran into my arms. “Mama you made it!” I wanted to cry out of relief and frustration.
Being a mama is tough, which is why improving on time management skills is essential otherwise all hell breaks loose. But there are always those days, no matter how hard you try, time is just never on your side. Ever had a day (or several) like that?