Julia is not in a good mood today.  

I woke up late today, sleeping through the alarm that I never, ever sleep through. The clock suddenly said 8:36, and the social worker, who visits us every other month as part of a Medicaid program, was due at 8:45. I jumped out of bed, pulling on my jeans as I not-so-quietly urged Julia to get up and dressed. Julia hates rushing. No, she doesn’t hate rushing, she doesn’t rush. She complains that I am rushing her which I need to do often to get her on The Ride, or to my choir rehearsal, or to a dozen other things when ‘on-time’ is relevant. If only I could bestow an understanding of time on her—on time, late, soon, rush, hurry, scheduled, delayed, tardy. Oh, so many words! 

This time deficite is absolutely nothing new. We’ve been struggling with time for almost as long as I’ve known Julia. Possibly the toughest part of the challenge is my desire/need/obsession with being on-time. 

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