It's Not MY Fault

My friend, Amanda, dropped off Leighton's car seat this morning before school. She had a few minutes until drop off and didn't want to wait for me in the parking lot. (Okay, so I usually hit the parking lot at three minutes until the bell rings and turn in on two wheels, whatever!) When Carly saw Ms. Amanda, IN HER MINIVAN, she got so excited. Amanda, innocently, asked if the girls were ready and mentioned she could just drop them off along with her kids.

Carly had been dragging her feet all morning and still had to wash her face, brush her teeth, do her hair and put on her shoes. (Now you see WHY I am always running late.) I told Amanda they weren't ready, thanked her and closed the door. Carly was crushed. She ran up the stairs as fast as she could, huffing and whining. I could hear her coaching herself as she brushed her teeth, combed her hair and washed her face, 'I can be fast, I can be fast. Fast, Fast, Fast.'

As she came down the stairs, three minutes later, she told me, "Call Ms. Amanda and tell her that I am ready." "I want to go in her minivan!" I explained to her that Ms. Amanda was already on her way home. I told her that she should hurry a little faster in the morning. That way, the next time Ms. Amanda comes over in the morning, she could go in her minivan. Carly looked at me with an exasperated facial expression and said, 'It's not my fault, I have slow feet!'

You're telling me?