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Sunday, 8 December 2013

Why I'm sorry

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.


2 comments:

  1. I remember the time we came to visit you and because of waiting on some scheduled appointment we were running late. Except we still managed to get there on the dot. It's an affliction, I tell ya.

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  2. I hate being late, although I sometimes am. I have a friend who is chronically late. When I plan anything with her, I tell her to be there a half an hour earlier than I intend to be there. :)

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