Punctuality has always been my strong suit. Whether it’s meetings, gatherings, or any social event, being on time is ingrained in me. My grandmother always said, “Being five minutes early is the same as being on time.” However, everything changed when my son Leo came into the world, arriving a week late and requiring two hours of labor.
Leo is a curious little boy, one who would rather pick up stones from the sidewalk or marvel at puddles than rush through breakfast. His tendency to dawdle has continually tested my patience. Leo’s slower pace seemed linked to his developmental delays. Throughout his toddler and preschool years, we juggled numerous appointments with speech, occupational, and physical therapists, and I worked diligently to ensure he received the support he needed.
To adapt, I meticulously organized our days around Leo’s unique rhythm. I prepped clothes and snacks the night before, set timers, and even allowed extra time for him to explore. Despite my efforts, “Hurry up!” became a common phrase in our household. On particularly tough days, I found myself lifting him out the door to keep our schedule on track.
After years of gently nudging him along, I hoped Leo would eventually adopt my perspective on time. Instead, I discovered that his slower processing speed was a real obstacle. By the end of third grade, he faced significant challenges in school. Teachers noted that his brain simply doesn’t send signals as quickly as others, making tasks that seem easy for most a struggle for him. Dawdling was woven into his very being.
With this newfound understanding, I realized I needed to change my approach to parenting. However, the idea of letting Leo manage his own time—even if it meant being late—made me uneasy. I felt it was crucial for him to learn how to use time wisely and move faster.
As Leo entered fourth grade, my morning routine consisted of repeated prompts: “Get dressed. Have breakfast. Grab your backpack. Don’t keep your friends waiting!” When gentle reminders turned into threats, our home felt like an ongoing conflict zone, leaving both Leo and me exhausted before the day even began.
Then, life threw a curveball when I returned to work, and my responsibilities multiplied. I had to accept that Leo was growing up and needed to take charge of his own actions. I came to terms with the fact that while he has special needs, he no longer required my constant oversight. It was time for a new strategy: I decided to let him be late.
One morning, I woke Leo with the same routine but with a twist. “We’re leaving at 7:45. You have until then to get ready.” When 7:40 rolled around, and he was still in bed, I said, “Your brother and I are leaving in five minutes. Just lock up when you head out. The bell rings at 8:15 a.m. See you there.” Our neighbors arrived to walk with us, and we left Leo behind.
As we walked, I glanced back and saw no sign of him. I dropped off my other son and walked toward the school gate. To my surprise, there was Leo, casually strolling up the sidewalk, fully dressed with his backpack. For the first time in weeks, he was smiling.
As we passed each other, he leaned in and said, “I love you, Mom.” “I love you too, sweetheart. Have a great day.” We parted ways, and surprisingly, no one was late.
Fast forward a few months, our mornings, although slower, have transformed into more peaceful experiences. Leo has learned to navigate his own schedule without my constant interference. His teacher has implemented strategies to accommodate his unique needs, and now his school days are far more productive. I’m doing my best to support Leo’s natural pace in small steps, understanding that growth takes time.
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In summary, allowing Leo the freedom to be late has not only eased our mornings but also empowered him to take ownership of his time. It’s a small adjustment that has made a significant difference in our family dynamic, proving that sometimes, a slower pace is perfectly okay.
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