I’m an optimistic person. Some might say excessively so but obviously I don’t think that’s possible. Except, perhaps, when I’m overly optimistic about the amount of time it takes  to get somewhere. And end up ever so slightly the wrong side of punctual…  that does occasionally happen… or underestimate how slow (I find it difficult to shake off my inner sloth) I  am in the mornings in order to get a few extra minutes of sleep… and end up ever so slightly the wrong side of punctual! Age and experience has taught me to curb my optimism a little but I still maintain that there’s no need to be early (except for work, I know it shouldn’t make a difference but it does: I really can’t be late plus I have to get changed).

I mean, what’s the point of agreeing a time for an appointment or a meeting if you in fact have to be there earlier. It’s understood that one shouldn’t be late, so one ought to allocate a sensible amount of time to achieve punctuality. But with the advent of Google maps, there’s no need to guess journey times any more. And if everyone were to use the fab technology (although, not gonna lie, Google maps can be a little too optimistic… even by my standards!) nobody would ever have to wait for anybody. Thing is, if you plan for every eventuality every time, you’ll spend a great many hours standing around waiting for things/others. If you’re that person, I salute you and I apologise for keeping you waiting. You should know that I’m always convinced I’m gonna leave on time but then I pass the washing machine on the way out and it needs emptying, or the dishwasher that ought to be set off, or my plants that need watering, or my cat that needs feeding, or some clothes which could be folded… and put away… there’s always something. If I were truly deludedly optimistic, I’d probably assume these little things would get done in my absence (there are, after all, 3 extra pairs of hands in my house)  but that’s just crazy think!

I  think punctuality was even more of a mission when the kids were younger. Leaving the house with all three suitably attired and equipped with everything we needed for the excursion did require big strategy and a great deal of luck. You’d be all ready to go and then there’d be a code brown. Sometimes it was a nuclear code brown in which case all semblance of punctuality went up in atomic stink. Often, the nappy bag, which had been carefully replenished (by yours truly) with nappies, wipes, rice cakes, clean clothes just a few days ago, would turn out to be full of stinky clothes and crumbs. You’d be frantically restocking it but in those few minutes, firstborn son might have fallen over and ripped his trousers,  middle child might have found the dregs of a cup of coffee and spilled it over himself and Only Daughter might have randomly vomited… Sometimes a single shoe would seemingly vamoose into thin air and that would be game over (you cannot leave if one child is only 50% shod). But often enough, we would reach our destination albeit a wee bit frazzled by the effort. Always optimistically believing it would be better next time.

Even leaving without the kids, say for an evening out, usually involved doing most of the bedtime routine (dinner, bath, story, bed) before leaving, and they always acted up if they sensed you were trying to cut corners in an effort to be on time. Somehow you had to factor in metamorphosising into PME (premotherhood era) human female but you had to time that very carefully because so many dastardly things could happen to your nice, elegant outfit within minutes of getting into something less comfortable. For one thing, kids sensed that the outfit upgrade boded badly for them and acted accordingly. It would trigger them to wake up extra early the next day, as an example! But the optimism paid off as I got to see friends sans enfants (allowing for grown up conversation), and eat meals I hadn’t cooked (in fancy crockery that I didn’t have to wash up) and see films and shows that kept me feeling alive rather than buried alive.

The most unwarranted optimism I demonstrated, time and again was planning holidays when the kids were young. I’d invariably overestimate their ability to cooperate in any meaningful way so even getting to the airport involved a tsunami of optimism. Negotiating all the airport hurdles were also deludedly optimistic nightmares. From the moment you have to locate outsize baggage to give up your car seat (yup, you remembered the car seat, kudos to you!) after queuing to check in the rest of the luggage (try keeping track of 3 competitively naughty kids while holding your place in the queue, and don’t forget at least one of them will need an urgent wee which is simply not possible) to the time you go through Nothing To Declare (nothing apart for the fact that you have survived, there should be a fanfare and a medal!) at the other end, taking a plane with kids is no fun. The advent of screens has really helped but back in the days I was the optimistic idiot who tried to withhold screen time. Foolishness!

I used to pack for the kids, obviously. I’ve never loved packing. All my recurring nightmares are about packing. No, really, it’s the honest truth! I’ll spare you the details because other people’s dreams are not terribly interesting due to the fact they are mostly incoherent nonsense. It’s one of the few things that my natural optimism fails to overcome so I have been known to overpack. Which is crazy because I know shops do exist in other places. But shopping (with grumpy kids) for stuff you already own (but failed to bring) is a depressing waste of holiday time. As soon as each child was deemed old enough (optimistically early in each case!) I delegating packing responsibilities to Firstborn Son, Middle Child and Only Daughter.  This yielded interesting (but unsatisfactory) results. I like to think that my optimism along with the fact that they had to live with the unsatisfactory consequences of said optimism has encouraged them to take packing seriously. It isn’t true. Firstborn Son regularly under packs, grumbling every time that this is because he has no clothes (but this never translates into him buying more clothes). Middle Child has far too many clothes and will pack a significant but randomly selected proportion of them regardless of the season. Only Daughter only wears leggings and hoodies but will sometimes pack an eclectic bunch of clothes which form no discernable outfit.  None of them pack toothbrushes, much less toothpaste. I live in hope. Yet, here’s a thing I learned over the years: nothing hideous has happened as a consequence imperfect packing. It just means I can relax if their suitcase doesn’t turn up at the other end. Firstborn Son has little to lose; Middle Child still has a mega ton of clothes back home; and Only Daughter never wears half the stuff she packed anyway so she won’t miss it!

I have optimistically tried to imbue said holidays with a modicum of culture. I have learned to appreciate the architecture, the scenery, the artwork the flora and fauna… by tuning out the ill-mannered whinging that seems to be the soundtrack to my efforts to impart cultural, historical or outdoorsy education. You have to believe against all odds that you (like your parents before you) can develop and activate special selective-hearing skills to drown out whingeing requests for junk food, extended screen time, tacky souvenirs, fizzy pop, the toilet despite lack of fizzy pop… but being an optimist means you never quit believing it’ll get better really soon if you can just get past this little hurdle. And the next ickle one. And so on until you’ve only gone and done it!

Of course packing, travelling and imparting a smattering of culture aren’t the only reasons why organising a holiday with small kids is a bad/hopelessly optimistic idea. Back in the PME, holidays were a blissful rest. Not so much with kids. They wake before sunrise (jet lag only ever works that way for kids, wherever you go!); you are responsible for their long term skin health but you have to catch them first; they are constantly hyper due to a burger-centric diet; but also tired from a dire combination of late nights, early mornings, too much sun and zero naps. You’ve brought arm bands, sandals, sunscreen, hats, water, but they refuse to engage with any of that and then compete to see who can give you the most heart attacks in any given day. The only rest you get is the cardiac arRESTs. Plenty of those.

Overall, I’m probably more of a pragmatic realistic optimist nowadays. Motherhood does tend to erode optimism. But that’s OK. You’d never have embarked on HMS motherhood if you weren’t wearing rose-tinted glasses (when what you really needed was a life jacket). You were utterly convinced that your little darlings would be a gift to humanity, they’d practically bring themselves up with just a few words of loving praise and encouragement to guide them onwards and upwards. I suspect that I wasn’t the only new parent who willfully ignored all the available evidence which solidly demonstrated otherwise, lulled by said optimism into believing that everyone else was obviously doing it wrong (you, equally obviously, would just do it right, how hard could it possibly be FFS?) Three kids, 2 decades later, you’ve lowered your expectations. Toned down your optimism. They’re STILL alive? Hallelujah! That’ll do nicely!