There's a greatness to her lateness.

As hard as I try, I can never manage to be the last parent in line for preschool drop-off or pick-up. What gives?

Frankly, I didn't even think I needed to try: genetics should be against me. 

I was always the last kid waiting to get picked up and chauffeured to her next event. One by one cars would arrive and friends would leave until I was the last man standing. It. Totally. Sucked. I assumed my kids were in for the same fate.

One time -- I repeat, one time -- I was not the last to get picked up. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief as our "poop-brown 2-door AM-only rear-wheel drive 1979 Buick Regal" jumped over a curb and screeched to a halt in front of me and my friends. I was beyond ecstatic: like those people jumping up and down when they win that Publisher's Clearing House (am I dating myself here?).  I yelled out -  "Goodbye! I'm leaving! So long suckers!" Yep. Only happened once. 

The car that got us everywhere

 Amazingly, I'm not that crazy-late chicken-with-her-head-cut-off mom! It must skip a generation (sorry, daughter). I usually find myself hovering in the middle of the pack -- unless it's work-out day and I have to haul buns to the Gym to make my class. Then I'm usually MOM #3 in line. (Oh I have priorities).

Although we all have those mornings when nothing goes right: the kids don't want to wash/brush/dress/eat (fill in the blank here), my toddler has a blow out just as we're walking out the door, or... I start doing laundry and time just melts away as I'm engrossed in this glorious of all domestic tasks. Whatever it is, there's that morning (and I've had plenty) where I say, "This is it. This is the morning where I get crowned Queen of the Late!"

Nope. 

Even on those tantrum-filled, poopy-butt, laundry-lovin' mornings, there's always some car that pulls up behind me --- some mom whose morning was just a little more crazy. God bless her!