I have been late maybe twice in my long lifetime. Once was when I got caught in a long cashier line and once when I was delivering a baby.
On the other hand, there is Dave.
Dave is a sweet man, of infinite patience, infinite loyalty and infinite pretty-close-to-lateness. I am convinced that as a child, Dave was rewarded by his family when he actually left the house before the family car left the driveway.
Did I mention that Dave is smart, logical, compassionate and generous? He is. I'm grateful. But still I find myself nagging him because the bus he needs to take to get Robyn to her swimming lessons only comes every half-hour, and if he misses the one he is apparently aiming for as a pretty wide target, they'll arrive in time to watch the other kids dry off.
I have now read the previous paragraphs and realize that the fault is not with Dave; the fault is with me. I have carelessly allowed myself to develop prepartum anxiety. That is why I got up at 6:30 this morning even though I wasn't going anywhere but I thought Dave wasn't either if I didn't hover. Probably annoyingly. I'm sorry for almost nagging, I'm sorry for hovering near the door with an anxious countenance and I'm sorry that I always thought earliness was a virtue. Oh, and actually, I'm probably just the tiniest bit sorry that Dave didn't miss the bus.
And I'm sorry I felt compelled to write about my prepartum anxiety, but I'll blame that on my long-held sense of the value of revenge.