I’m late for everything. Sometimes I flat out don’t show up. I flake out a lot.

I have 3 kids. That’s an excuse, right?  They’re very little.

But I’m not actually flaky. When I am late, or when I don’t show up for something as planned, it isn’t because I found something better to do or I got distracted by the piles of laundry or my to-do list (although…ok, sometimes that IS the case).

I am late because I’m practicing patience.

I like to keep busy. I plan a lot of play dates and social commitments. But I have kids. Kids throw big fat wrenches in everything. The 3yo may have a meltdown because she absolutely has to wear her mermaid shirt but the mermaid shirt is in the hamper and covered in ketchup. The 7yo may try to drive me insane by running around the house so hard and fast that pictures fall off the walls and break and then there’s glass all over the floor. The baby may have a blowout poop situation which he’s smeared into his hair or the carpet or the wall; or maybe he’s cutting a tooth and just wants me to drop what I’m doing and hold him and snuggle him and maybe slip him a little boob action. Maybe I cannot decide which of my ridiculous amount of clothes to wear because I’m feeling bloated and I don’t want to be seen in public looking as gross as I feel, and my frustration is carrying over into my interactions with my children.

Even if all of this is happening, I still want to honor my commitments and see my friends and get out of the house. But there’s something keeping me there.

Patience.

During these times when I feel angry and frustrated and spread too thin, I am gifted with The Moment.

The Moment is that blink of an eye, flash-of-a-thought time when I realize that I can march on with my plans, sacrificing my sanity and pushing the limits of my children’s good behavior; or I can just. Stop. Breathe. Be present. Be patient. With myself. And, especially, with my children.

When they’re melting down and having a difficult moment and reaching for mommy and vying for my attention, I have a choice. I can ignore it, or I can give in to it. Sit down with them. Give them my time. Give them my love. My physical, wrap-them-in-my-arms-and-cover-them-with-kisses love. The love they are craving in that moment. And I can give them patience.

When I give my children patience, I am not yelling at them to hurry up and get out the door so we aren’t late. I’m not telling them to stop crying. I’m not telling them to stop grabbing at the hem of my shorts. I’m not putting my guilt on them and telling them it’s their fault we are late and letting people down. I am filling up their empty, outstretched hands with the love they are asking me to show them.

That is patience. And that is always more important to me than being on time.