Punctuality is a trait I take pride in. I’m the one who shows up early to gatherings and is always prepared, echoing my grandmother’s mantra that “being five minutes early is being on time.” However, everything changed when my son Sam entered my life—his arrival was a week overdue, and the moment he could walk, he began to take his sweet time with everything.
Sam’s leisurely pace became evident as a toddler, as he would often stop to marvel at puddles or meticulously build towers instead of rushing to eat breakfast. His tendency to dawdle was linked to some developmental delays, which led us to frequent visits with speech, occupational, and physical therapists during his early years. To accommodate his needs, I meticulously structured our days, preparing his clothes and snacks ahead of time, setting timers, and even allowing extra time for him to meander. Yet, “hurry up” became a common phrase in my vocabulary, and I often found myself ushering him out the door just to keep up with our schedule.
After years of my anxious prompting, I assumed Sam would eventually adapt to my sense of time. However, it became clear that his natural rhythm was different. By the end of third grade, his slower processing speed caused some academic challenges, and his teachers discovered he needed more time to organize his thoughts and actions.
Realizing this, I knew a shift in my parenting style was essential. But the idea of letting him navigate his mornings at the risk of being late was daunting. I thought, despite his unique wiring, he needed to learn to be quicker and manage his time better. I maintained strict control over our morning routine, repeating reminders like a broken record: “Get dressed. Eat breakfast. Grab your bag.”
As he entered fourth grade, my nagging evolved into threats and yelling, which only escalated the tension between us. Our mornings turned into a constant struggle, leaving us both drained before the day even started. Then life changed when I returned to work, and my responsibilities expanded. I had to accept that Sam was older and needed to take charge of his own actions.
That’s when I made the decision to let Sam be late for school. One morning, I woke him up and set a clear departure time of 7:45. When he was still in bed at 7:40, I simply said, “We’re leaving in five minutes. Lock up on your way out. See you at school.” Despite my initial anxiety, I walked out the door with my other son, leaving Sam behind.
As we strolled towards school, I glanced back to see Sam finally making his way up the sidewalk, fully dressed and with his backpack. For the first time in weeks, he wore a smile. As we passed, he affectionately nuzzled into me, saying, “I love you, Mom,” to which I replied, “I love you too, sweetheart. Have a great day.”
To my surprise, no one was late that day. Now, several months later, our mornings are more peaceful, albeit slower. Sam has learned to manage his time better. He arrives at school without my interference, and his teachers have adapted their methods to support his needs. As I nurture Sam’s unique rhythm, I’m reminded that learning and growth take time.
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In summary, allowing my son the space to be late has turned our mornings from chaotic to calm, giving him the opportunity to thrive in his own time.