I'm fond of the Hurry Up and Wait of life. Or, I should say, I prefer it to the alternatives. I will always rather be at a location thirty minutes before I need to be there. I did most of my packing for Saturday's trip last Sunday, and nearly all the rest of it last night.

My dear husband is not this way. He is a self-proclaimed procrastinator and I think he's even a little proud of it. Often, when we are going to see a movie or a scheduled event, I can be found pacing the floor near the door. I am ready to go, while he is upstairs playing a game on the computer, chatting with acquaintances, or something of that nature. I know he hears my deliberate, impatient sighs from the second level. I even wear my boot heels so that they may tap loudly against the kitchen tile as I stomp about.

He ignores my subtleties deftly. This is our dynamic. I let him know that I want to be early, and he lets me know that he doesn't. In the end, we compromise and arrive just fifteen minutes early. Miles spends every fifteen of those minutes as I spent mine in the beginning, fidgeting to show his displeasure.

I suppose that by this point, we have molded each other as much as we'll be able to. I can accept that he is the way that he is...and hope to God that the children take after their mother.