My Toddler Has No Idea We're Running Late (And Honestly, She's Onto Something)

We are late.

Again.

Not catastrophically late — not always. Sometimes it's just the kind of late where I'm standing in the kitchen staring at the clock, doing math I really don't want to do.

And my two-year-old?

She could not care less.

She just doesn't recognize time as an authority figure. And I don't think any of us are born knowing we're supposed to.

There are adults who live and die by calendars, departure times, and that small, devastating number in the corner of the phone screen that tells us our entire morning is quietly falling apart. We know what late costs. We feel it in our chests before we even look at the clock.

Then there is my daughter.

She has her own timeline.

And apparently, we are all just visiting it.

Running Late With a Toddler: Why It's So Hard to Be Mad

This isn't one specific story. This is just our life.

We can be trying to leave for practically anything — a doctor's appointment, the grocery store, a work call I need to take from the car — and it always goes some version of the same way.

"Shoes on."

Nothing.

"We have to go, sweetheart."

She is playing.

"Come on, love."

She has suddenly remembered that she is fully capable of doing everything herself, and she will not be accepting assistance at this time.

Shoes? Herself.

Getting her things? Herself.

Walking to the door? Herself.

Getting into the car? Also herself.

There is apparently a two-year-old union rule requiring that she personally oversee the entire operation, start to finish, with no outside interference.

And I love this about her. I love watching those small hands work something out. I love the way her face changes when she realizes she did it on her own. That pride is real and worth protecting.

I just sometimes wish she could develop independence about fifteen percent faster on mornings when I have a work call.

Because there I am — holding her shoes, my bag, and three things that don't belong to me — watching the minutes disappear. And she is living a completely different story. She might be deep into a toy. She might be reconsidering the shoe she specifically chose twenty minutes ago.

Or she might find a ladybug.

And if there is a ladybug, the schedule is over.

The ladybug she found does not yet have a name, by the way. I'm assuming that's coming.

Toddlers and Time: She Has Never Met a Deadline She Respected

I say "We're going to be late" more often than I'd like to admit. And every time, I realize I'm explaining an abstract social construct to a person who recently walked into a room and announced:

"Here I am!"

That is her relationship with arrival.

Not sorry I'm late. Not traffic was terrible. Just:

Here I am.

Imagine walking into every room completely unconcerned with whether you arrived at 10:00 or 10:07. No apology. No shame spiral. You just show up.

The meeting may have already started. But apparently it can begin properly now.

She doesn't understand what late means yet. And she certainly doesn't understand why I occasionally become a woman speed-walking through the house, holding one tiny shoe, whispering "PLEASE. WE HAVE TO LEAVE."

To her, there is no emergency.

There is only right now.

The Honest Part: Sometimes I Really Do Need Her to Hurry

I wish I could tell you I always find this charming.

I don't.

When there's no real consequence, I can laugh it off. But when someone is waiting — when I can see the minutes disappearing and I know being late affects someone besides us — I get stressed.

Really stressed, sometimes.

Because she is two. She has no idea what I'm carrying while I try to get us out the door. She is not standing there thinking, Mom has an important call today. This seems like an excellent morning to begin an intensive study of ladybugs.

She is just being two.

Her slowness isn't disrespect. Her independence isn't defiance. Her fascination with something tiny on the sidewalk isn't proof that she isn't listening.

She is just moving through the world at the pace of someone who hasn't been taught yet that there is always somewhere else she is supposed to be.

That one gets me every time.

Toddlers Live in the Moment — Because Nobody Has Taught Them Not To Yet

Adults are almost never fully where we are.

We brush our teeth while running through the meeting. We drive while thinking about the grocery list. We eat lunch while answering an email. We are always preparing for the next thing, which means we are rarely actually here for this one.

My daughter hasn't learned that yet.

If there is a ladybug, then for one small, unrepeatable moment, there is nothing more important in the universe than that ladybug.

She doesn't know she's supposed to rush past it.

I know I have to teach her, at least a little. School will exist. Appointments are real. Other people's time matters. That is part of growing up.

But I don't want the clock to take everything.

I don't want to be so focused on getting her somewhere that I accidentally teach her that whatever catches her attention along the way is always an inconvenience. That wonder is something to outgrow. That stopping costs too much.

Because sometimes the ladybug matters too.

Maybe We're Both Still Learning

There is probably a middle ground somewhere between my "WE ARE LATE" and her "I DO IT."

I haven't found it yet.

But I think it looks something like this — a place where I can respect the schedule without turning every departure into a small emergency. Where she can learn that other people's time matters without learning that her own pace is always wrong. Where I can let her try the shoe herself and also, on the hard mornings, say, "I love that you can do it. Today, Mama needs to help."

Maybe that's what raising someone actually is.

You're not just teaching them how the world works. You're deciding which parts deserve to be passed on exactly as they are — and which parts could use a little softening before they reach her.

I want her to be responsible. I want her to show up when she says she will.

But I also hope she keeps some piece of the little girl who walks into a room and announces, "Here I am." The one who sees the ladybug and stops — because stopping feels like exactly the right thing to do.

Because one day the shoes will go on quickly. She'll grab her own bag and probably be the one telling me we're going to be late.

And somewhere in the middle of some completely ordinary morning, I'm going to remember the little girl who could turn getting out the door into a twenty-minute adventure because she had nowhere more important to be than exactly where she was.

I know I will miss her.

Not necessarily while I'm late for a work call. Let's remain reasonable.

But someday.

So yes. I'll keep teaching her about time. I'll keep saying "Come on, we have to go" approximately four thousand times before she's old enough to drive.

But I'm also going to try to remember what she's teaching me.

Sometimes you have to move faster.

And sometimes you really need to look at the ladybug.

We may still be late.

But when we finally walk through that door?

Here we are.

About the Author | Day 245 of 365

I'm a coach, a writer, an entrepreneur, and a mom — lately spending a surprising portion of my life standing near the front door saying "we have to go" to a tiny person who has absolutely no idea why this should concern her.

For 245 days I've been writing about what a real life actually looks like. Some days it's grief, healing, love, faith — the bigger things that change us. Other days it's one missing shoe and a ladybug who has taken down the entire morning schedule.

Motherhood is full of these contradictions. I want to teach my daughter how to move through the world — while she keeps reminding me how to actually notice it.

And maybe, somewhere between her timeline and mine, we'll both get a little better at this.

Preferably before my next meeting.

Day 245 of 365. Let's try to be on time-ish. 🐧