When my kids were little, getting them out the door turned into a major military operation with me as the commander-in-chief. I’d rush around to grab snacks, extra clothes, and playthings to entertain them in the car. Next I’d herd everyone to the bathroom and then to the door. I’d sweat over putting everyone’s shoes on. A few years went by, and I’d break out in a sweat watching them grapple to get their shoes on themselves.
I didn’t like the person I became during those mad dashes out of the house. I’d bark out orders, roll my eyes, and yell, “Come on, guys!” I blamed my bad attitude on my kids, who constantly made us late. In reality, I was the one who hadn’t left enough margin in my schedule for the “I-need-a-miracle-now” feat of getting two toddlers out the door.