I knew what time it was without even looking as I threw the Durango into reverse and began backing us out of the driveway this morning.
Ruth, however, just recently discovered that the radio tucked into the dash also broadcasts the time and I'm certain she's obsessed with it.
We're supposed to leave the house by six.
And ABSOLUTELY not 6:14.
Yet, for reasons I can't seem to explain...
I used to get frustrated. I used to stress out. Heck, I used to (dare I admit it?) yell. When I realized my seven year old was giving me advice on how to get out of the house faster, earlier, and calmer I decided I might want to rethink what was going on. I rethought it. I realized I still get to work four minutes before I'm required to when I leave the house at 6:14 and that's the day I decided 6:14 was okay.
I just never told Ruth.
Because, hey... if there's a slim chance we -might- get out of the house "on time" that would be SOINCREDIBLYAWESOME.
Back to today.
I knew what time it was without even looking.
As I pulled out of our neighborhood, Ruth checked the clock and said, "6:14... That's not too bad. We're only fourteen minutes late today, mom. I think you're going to be alright."
I glanced at her in the rearview mirror and smiled, "You think so?"
"Yeah, it's Tuesday. Tuesdays are good days. You won't be late and besides... fourteen minutes isn't a lot of time. You're going to be just fine."
Then she leaned over and started tickling her sister.
She's right. Tuesdays are good days, fourteen minutes isn't a lot of time, and I -am- going to be just fine.
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