My Kind of Nightmare

We were always late to everything when I was growing up. I don't know if it's a reaction to the embarrassment I felt at being part of a big, usually pretty loud, group of people that was perpetually, I felt, barging into the middle of events already in progress, but I am now compulsively punctual. I am at my most uptight when, despite my best efforts to get us out the door, my husband and children are slow to get moving. Much as I don't like feeling rushed, I really, really dislike running late.

I dreamt last night that John and I were sitting in our living room talking to three Hasidic Jews who just would not leave. I kept looking at my watch and suddenly it was 8:35, meaning that I was already really late getting Hannah to school. I woke up in a cold sweat.

I meant to tell about this last night, but the emotions were still too raw: I tried to get a picture of my kids for a Christmas card. Hannah was mostly wonderful throughout, but Jonah would not cooperate. Maybe I ought to lower my standards (or have someone else take the picture), but is it too much to ask that he just sit still, look at the camera and keep his tongue in his mouth for 5 seconds? I'm giving it another try in a little bit, but I may be sending out this.