School Mornings with Kids are the Worst
Yes, it’s a school day. Another one. Just like that.
5:15. The sun has yet to shine its rays between my curtains.
I push the clock toward my face, and in the process, knock my glasses to the floor.
I’m now wide awake, on hands and knees, searching for my eyes.
I find them under the bed and I set them on my face where they belong.
I adjust to the darkness of the day that is yet to come and shrug out of my fleece armor- socks, pants, sweatshirt- and into my workout gear.
5:25. In the far corner of my house, in a small room, under a window facing the woods, I fall out of my life before I’ve been awake long enough to recall what the day will bring.
Netflix and treadmill.
The time ticks as my feet march rhythmically. Bed and rest now feel hours away as the day’s responsibilities loom ahead.
6:30. Sweaty and tired, in a good way, I walk through the house, clicking on lights in children’s rooms and singing the morning war cry:
Rise and shine! Good morning! Rise and shine!
Yes, it’s a school day. Another one. Just like that.
The house has gone from soft breathing, to a steady thump, thump, thumping of my solitary feet, to the chorus of my family preparing for the day ahead.
Taylor Swift sings Bad Blood as underpants are put on bottoms.
Cats with empty bellies meow, neglected for the time being, for they don’t need to catch the bus in 15 minutes.
The dog’s nails click-clack across the wood floor as he follows anyone, and everyone, through their morning duties. It is a shock and sadness to him that, once again, the family he loves with his heart will walk out the door and leave him alone for the day. Until then, he rests 2 inches from my feet as I sit on the floor, stretching, in one child’s room as she dresses ever. so. slowly.
6:45. I’ve made it a race: you get your socks on before I finish these push-ups. You get your shirt on before I finish this jumping jack. We both come out winners. I get some ab muscles and she doesn’t have to get on the bus naked.
6:50. I weave in and out of rooms, directing a poorly rehearsed play, with coffee in hand.
Brush your teeth. Comb your hair. Put on your boots. Put on your hat. Husband, please help her comb the kid’s hair. Husband, help the kid find her hat. Husband, feed the cats.
7:00. There’s mostly smiles, though from time to time there are tears. I try not to get them in my coffee. There are always grumbles.
Sweat pours and hearts pound as the little arm of the clock speeds around its face much faster than what seems humane.
Times are shouted out into the air.
7:06. “Mommy, have you seen my necklace?”
7:08. “Which one?”
“The one I can’t find!”
7:10. “I saw it while I was stretching. It’s in your closet, on the floor, under a dirty sock.”
“Can you find it for me?”
“No!” 7:14.
“I really need that necklace!”
7:16. “The bus will be here any minute!”
“I can’t go to school without that necklace.”
“I can’t do this again, today, or I’m going to go insane.”
A 30-second standoff ensues.
Arms crossed, feet stomp, threats passed in each direction.
The necklace glints as it passes from Daddy to the child.
The standoff is over and I resign myself to losing, not because I give up, but because I hear the squeal of the bus as it comes to a halt in front of our house.
We scamper to the bus and muffle I love yous into scarves and hats and do our very best not to cry as they press their faces to the glass and make heart shapes with their hands as the bus slides away.
7:22.
7:23. I miss them already.
