My grade one does not like being late. It sets her in a state of panic that renders her in slow motion. It’s like watching someone try to run from an axe murderer when their legs aren’t working. “I’m late, I’m late, I’m late,” she’ll mutter helplessly; the White Rabbit’s much slower aunt, her lunchbox somehow the wrong shape for her bag. My prep is also late to the car, though they do not appear trapped in a mind maze of worry. They simply do not want to go to school. They will sit in shoeless protest in the bedroom, hallway and driveway to illustrate the point.
I am a late person, or at least not an early person. I get dates wrong and oversleep and consequently miss the train. I masquerade as an “on time” person to keep jobs and pay rent, but it’s not what’s in my heart.
Early people do not think highly of late people. They smile tightly and offer some comment about at least knowing what they would like to order for lunch, but inside they are sickened. They believe lateness equates to being lazy, or at least rotten to the core. Early people think of life as something within their charge; that if one merely had enough consideration for their fellow human they could and should part traffic, find parking spaces and resolve cluttered, forgetful minds.
Late people seek other late people to mirror the chaos. We love-heart one another’s harried, last minute texts predicting just how late we’ll be. It’s OK, we whisper between the lines, you’re safe here. We refuse to be offended by lateness, and in this refusal we ourselves are forgiven. We drink coffee on empty stomachs, having arrived at the cafe long after the kitchen has closed. We float together on our private island.
My husband is an early person. It’s tempting to portray him as a windowless office worker who values punctuality over joy, but in many ways we’re not that different. When we met he was in a band called Peacocks and wore gold leggings and a full face of makeup. He leapt on stage and gyrated unconstrained. He arrived at his gigs on time.
“It comes down to fairness,” he said simply. “If I’ve made the effort to be on time, why can’t you?”
“You see it as cheating, like someone has cut in front of you at the checkout,” I said. “What if the person cutting doesn’t realise they’re doing it? Or they do, but they’re double-parked and locked in a custody battle and late to the school recital?”
“It doesn’t matter. Early people have lives too. Everybody needs to take accountability for themselves.”
“But isn’t the goal to live more peacefully?” I asked. “Doesn’t forgiveness benefit the forgiver more than anyone? Wouldn’t there be less road rage and inflamed gums and nameless stress in the world?”
“Early people aren’t interested in forgiveness,” he said. “We’re Old Testament. An eye for an eye. We don’t forgive you, but we don’t expect forgiveness either. We see the world for the merciless place that it is.”
On Tuesday we were late for school. The coordinator watched our arrival from the bottom of the hill, her presence radiating like sound in an amphitheatre. It’s against the rules to run down the path from the car park, so my children and I attempted a desperate backpacked version of an Olympic race walk – one foot touching the ground at all times, lest we be disqualified.
“I’m late, I’m late, I’m late,” D muttered. “You’re not late!” I said, smiling to keep from screaming. “We’re right on time! Quick, let’s go!”
Second bell sounded. We were officially late. Amid tearful hugs I dropped the kids to their classrooms and went to sign them in at the office.
“Everything OK this morning?” the coordinator asked, having appeared at my shoulder.
Some residual panic fluttered in my chest. “D cares a lot about being late. I wish she didn’t.”
“It’s a much calmer start to the day,” the coordinator smiled. “There’s no doubt about that.”
“True. Except it doesn’t always work out.” I focused my attention on a screen, where I was being asked to select from the following reasons for our lateness:
• Medical appointment / illness
• Bereavement
• Cultural observance
• Parent choice
My finger hovered first over “bereavement”, for between the school refusal, tears, hair clips and general navigation of the parenting house of mirrors at least three versions of myself had died that morning. Next I considered “illness”, for were we not products of a society sick with the need for instant gratification, missing the bird at the window as we rush between Zoom calls? “Cultural observance” also felt close, given that my children were being raised in a crossfire between opposing schools of thought.
“It’s parent choice,” the coordinator prompted. I nodded, still resisting. Parent choice felt the least true. I was up and dressed and ready on time. I made lunches and found missing shoes and herded cats. I didn’t choose to be late, but I had a choice now: I could forgive myself for it.
I tapped “parent choice” and felt lighter.
The coordinator nodded approvingly. “See you tomorrow,” she said. She didn’t need to say on time; the message rang clear. I chose to ignore it.
• Ashe Davenport is a writer and author
