Julia Proverbs: Factor in little legs

We live a convenient 10-minute walk from school.
So why does my watch tell me it takes 30 minutes to get there?
The discrepancy is due to the fact that I am still working on adult time.
You know, where you decide to go somewhere, leave the house, turn the key in the door and ... well ... go.
But when you factor in children, you have to multiply it by at least three.
When you tell your small charges it's time to leave for school, do not expect them to move in any sort of a hurry.
Expect first to be met with opposition.
"But I want to finish my game."
Which is a tad perplexing, given that five minutes earlier there was no "game" and said child was tugging at your sleeve while you were making sandwiches, asking when it was time to go.
Secondly, never, ever expect them to be ready.
Despite repeated requests for them to fetch their shoes and put them on, they will not have their shoes on.
Nor will they have fetched them. Or put them away the previous evening. The "game" then becomes "find-the-shoe" which could be anywhere from the bottom of the garden to the dress-up box.
Thirdly, do not be fooled into thinking that once you actually make it out the door, you can switch to adult time.
If you are on foot, the journey itself is still likely to take double what you would expect, even when you factor in little legs.
One of the greatest mysteries of small children remains their ability to run away from you at the speed of light when you are out shopping or nearing a busy state highway but to walk at a snail's pace when you are in any sort of a hurry.
"Mummy carry me," Miss Two whines after taking two steps.
"My legs are sore," Miss Five dramatises.
And so begins a painful trudge to school, stopping every few metres to adjust a school bag, shake a stone out of a shoe or give an Olympic-grade pep talk to get them to round the next corner.
Then, miraculously, as we approach the school gates, Miss Five breaks into a sprint, after seeing one of her friends ahead.
Which is just as well, given my watch now says 8.59am.
I pick up the pace as much as I can with a pre-schooler on my hip, and arrive at the classroom just in time to see Miss Five's blonde ponytail bob through the door to the tune of the school bell.
Giving an apologetic smile to the teacher, I depart on the second leg of the journey - to kindy.
"I want to walk", Miss Two asserts, and disembarks the mother ship, running off at speed towards the zebra crossing.
I arrive at kindy flushed and out of breath.
Then set my watch to kiddy-time for a leisurely stroll home, alone.