Combating GST

It’s become clear to me that no matter where I have to be with three children, I will almost always be ten minutes late. I’m pretty sure it’s one of the unspoken laws of parenthood. And to fight it, is like trying to fight gravity. Pretty fruitless. Sure, I learned early on- as a novice parent- that there are the usual preventative steps that can be taken in attempt to be punctual. Like lay out the kids’ clothing the night before. Make sure the cell phone and keys are put in their usual spot to avoid any last minute hunt for them. Get up earlier. But that doesn’t safeguard from the baby’s blowout that will likely ensue the moment I get him in his carseat nor does it avoid the meltdown that the pre-schooler will have over the shoes that need to be put on (regardless of the fact that they were his choice a few minutes prior). In our house we know this little phenomenon as G.S.T. (that’s Greenlee Standard Time for the common man). What amazes me is that GST is in effect no matter what time zone we’re in. We could be in Tonganoxie or Timbuktu and we’d still be ten minutes late to any engagement.

My husband and I have tried to be strategic as we combat G.S.T. from holding us up (and keeping others waiting on us). We’ve found communication to be a key feature in our success. Inevitably, when we are heading somewhere as an entire family we typically run later, usually because of unspoken expectations (ie: I assume my husband is getting a certain child ready to get into the car while he thinks I’m doing the same with said child). Plus, there’s always the last minute scrimmage for forgotten items (because, as we all know, an outing with a baby usually requires so much gear, it looks like we’re moving and not simply stepping out for a few hours). I’ve come to the conclusion that you don’t need a larger vehicle because of the kids, but because of their stuff. We now set our clocks a few minutes ahead, provide extra margin in our scheduling for the “hiccups” that come our way, keep water bottles in the car and grab extra shoes for the three year old who is notorious for losing them or taking them off. We’re not always on time, but we’re making strides. It’s baby steps, I tell you, baby steps.

My five year old even mentioned recently when we were out on the road, “Hey, Mom. You’re not sweaty like you normally are when we go places.” And I have to think, if that’s not progress, what is?