Sure we’re still slaves to the alarm clock for the first two weeks of July because the boy has morning swimming lessons, but getting ready for the pool is nothing compared to preparing for school and work.
I still get up an hour before I need to, in order to have quiet time to wake up and savour an extra cup of coffee. I hate to rush and I have an almost pathological aversion to being late. Hurrying in the morning throws off the rest of my day.
The night before the boy’s first class I dig out the lesson receipt to double check the start time–8:30, just as I thought.
Everything is going on schedule until the phone rings at 8:10. It’s the pool wondering why the boy hasn’t turned up for his eight o’clock class.
“Because it doesn’t start until 8:30,” I say sipping my coffee. “I checked the time on the receipt.”
“You must have misread it. It’s an eight o’clock start and your son is late.”
Late! We don’t do late!
The boy, like my sailor, is relaxed about minor glitches like this. He saunters onto the pool deck to begin his class. Me? I am flustered and shaken because the script of my day has been thrown off and we are late–LATE!–for the very first swimming lesson.
I thrust my receipt under the receptionist’s nose so she can see I’m not one of those disorganized, tardy types.
“It does say 8:30,” she says tapping a long blue-tipped fingernail on the paper. “The start time must be wrong because you signed your son up for the course so long ago. I guess the schedule wasn’t finalized at that point.”
Here we have another of my issues. I worry incessantly about missing deadlines so I am usually the first one signed up for anything.
She pushes the receipt back across the counter to me. “It’s no big deal. He didn’t really miss anything by coming late.”
No big deal??? We were late for the first lesson! (Did I mention we don’t do late?)
Perhaps I’m a bit high strung. My sailor isn’t. He doesn’t worry about things that likely won’t happen and he takes setbacks in stride. Most importantly, he calms me down when stuff like this upsets me. Without his soothing influence, being late for a swimming lesson because I was told the wrong start time takes on epic proportions.
Emails aren’t going to cut it. I worry that I’m going to be a mess by the time he comes home in March.