I have the choice of  taking several different routes when I walk to pick up my four-year-old grandson from preschool.

The most direct one keeps me on two commercial streets with restaurants, OXXOs, and more nail salons than you would think you’d see on a ten-minute stroll.

The other routes involve turning off and venturing down one of three residential streets, where I still see one OXXO but mainly manicured and flowering trees, colorful houses, and the snouts of dogs under ornate gates.

With some sort of internal clock that I attribute to a Midwestern concern for timeliness, I arrive at his school every day right on time regardless of the route I choose.

I’ve always considered this a success.

But lately my grandson has been complaining.

“I was the first one in my class to get picked up,” he told me the other day. “I don’t want to be the first one any more.”

And so, for the next several days, I left a little later and walked a little slower. 

I doubled back past my favorite house that has an open gate and allows me to peek in and lament that their potted plants are greener and more profuse than my own. 

I stopped at a pay phone on the corner to see if it’s actually a working phone, crossed a street to get a better look at an interesting cupola, and let six cars go by before crossing back.

When I passed a few kids from his school on my last block yesterday, I thought I was doing okay.

“How did I do?” I asked as he came out dragging his Superman backpack and carrying a paper mache bunny. “I walked a whole lot slower today.”

“Grandma!” he said, with a certain amount of impudence. “I don’t want you to walk slower. I want you to be late!”

So much for thinking that I was the one who had acclimated.