You Wouldn't Believe Me if I Told You

by Doug Kaufman

I pride myself on being punctual and I do not like to be late. I admire people who are on time for meetings and gatherings because I believe it shows a level of respect to the rest of the assembled crowd.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been on time for anything since one exciting day in 1993.

Now, before you think I’m saying that my perpetual battle with the clock can be traced directly to the day the Better Half said "I Do," I must point out two very important facts. Number one, we got married in 1991. Number two, I would never accuse her of not being ready for anything. I’m simple but I’m not stupid.

No, the real reasons we haven’t been on time for any school event, church function or family gathering in almost 13 years are much easier to pinpoint: The Oldest, The Middle One and The Boy. Of course I should also make the disclaimer that I go for the quick, easy gag of blaming my children for one reason: because you wouldn’t believe me if I told you the truth.

Whenever we put something on our calendar, The Better Half and I know to plan enough time in our travel schedule to allow for the inevitable crisis that will develop at the last second. Old Murphy really knew what he was talking about.

Exhibit A: Last Thanksgiving, when I offered to put the food in the van so that we could be on the road in plenty of time to get to my parents’ house, I assumed it was a simple matter of walking out of the kitchen, through the front door and setting the food on the floor of the van. The problem was step one. We use a baby gate to keep our dog in the kitchen while we’re gone, and when I went to step over it, carrying a pie in one hand and a full pan of sweet potatoes in the other, The Boy decided to take that opportunity to play tag with The Dog—right around my feet.

Somehow, I managed to fall without hitting the corner of the dining room table or either of the tag participants. The floor was another story. Because of the food in each hand I couldn’t brace myself and so I went, spread eagle, facedown on the carpeting. As I lay motionless on the carpet trying to decide if I’d ever be able to move again, my son ran over to offer his support. "Do it again, Daddy!" he shouted while jumping on my back. Amazingly, not a drop of food spilled, but my spine aches each time I think of it.

Exhibit B: As I was loading the car to go (once again) to my parents’ house one bitterly cold Christmas, I decided to be polite and warm it up for the rest of the family. It sat in the driveway running for a few minutes while I brought out gifts, food and The Better Half’s purse. When everything was wedged into place, I shut the door to keep the heat in, turned to go back to the house, and heard a familiar "thunk." The cold had done something to the electrical system and the doors had locked themselves with the car running. I looked through the passenger window. There, sitting inside the purse, I could see the second set of car keys safely locked away.

The guy from the Auto Club was gracious enough not to call me a goofball while the kids were within earshot, but he didn’t seem to believe me that the car had locked itself. Come to think of it, I don’t think my wife did either.

One of my favorite Dr. Seuss books is And To Think That I Saw It On Mulberry Street. This epic poem tells the story of young Marco, who tries to impress his father with the variety of exciting things he has seen on his walk home from school. After imagining the vast array of what he could say, he decides that honesty is the best policy.

We’ve tried hard to teach our children that they should always tell the truth, but when it comes to making excuses for being late, unlike Marco, I’ve found it’s usually easier to lie.

"The reason?" I stammered, trying hard not to cough. "Well, the TV was on and I couldn’t turn it off."

Let’s be fair: saying I was watching video shopping on television and just didn’t want to miss the next item may be more embarrassing to my manly ego, but at least it sounds possible. I’m not going to be accused of telling crazy stories.