If my weekday mornings were a slice of toast they’d be slathered in butter and jelly, both running off the sides and leaving puddles of goo all over the counters and crumbs everywhere—in other words, a total mess!
7:16 a.m.—I finally open my eyes after hitting snooze from the 6:15 and 6:30 alarms. (I’ve tricked myself by setting my alarm clock ahead about 10 minutes.)
The Girl is already out of bed and dressed, she’s going to Chic Fil A today with a group of accelerated readers from school. Amazing that she could get up seeing as how we had to tell her about five times after she went to bed to put the Harry Potter book down and go to sleep. I battle with this because one side of me is like, rock on sista, read read read and read some more, it’ll learn ya things. The other side is like, ok, you’re 8 years old, its 11 p.m. you need your rest.
7:18 a.m.—I peek in the Boy’s room on my way to make coffee, sure that I’m going to have to drag his butt out of bed; he’s like me, not a morning person. Instead, he walks out of the living room waving a video; he’s six and in the last month or so has reverted back to his perverted fascination with that big ass purple dinosaur.
Me: Boy, we don’t watch videos or TV in the mornings, you know that. Now go get dressed.
Him: (teeth and fists clenched) Fine. (he stomps off to get dressed)
I make it to the kitchen to make coffee, the Girl is standing there with her book on the counter, reading. I smile and ask her if she’s ready for school. Yep, she is. Good, one down.
In the hallway the boy growls at me, in pants and no shirt.
Boy: Growl, these pants are too long.
Me: Ok, find another pair.
10 minutes later he walks into my room with shorts on.
Me: Uh Boy, granted its 70 degrees right now, but the temperature is going to drop 20 degrees during the course of the day and it might rain, not the best shorts weather. Go put on pants.
He stomps off to find pants.
I follow him to help.
Me: Ok, here are three pair of pants to choose from Boy.
Boy: The sweat pants stick to my feet (this means they’re ribbed at the bottom like most sweats); the tag is scratchy on those (he’s worn them about 50 million times) and those are too long (they aren’t floods/high waters)
Me: Ok, I’m sorry, but you have to pick a pair from these and get dressed, we’re running late.
7:50 a.m. (keep in mind we should leave the house at 8 a.m. to make it to school on time) I’m in the kitchen, ready, fixing my lunch, fixing their snacks. The Hubby is ready, feeding the dogs, prodding the kids, finding jackets for the kids who never know where they are. The Girl is standing at the table reading and I’m brushing the hair she said she brushed. The Boy comes in with the pants (the ones he said were too long), a shirt and one sock (damn, I forgot to check for underwear, he could be commando today).
Boy: I can’t find my other shoe.
Mom: Did you look under your bed?
Mom: Look under your bed and then brush your teeth and hair.
8:00 a.m. After a few shouts of prodding the Boy returns to the kitchen.
Me: Did you brush your teeth?
Boy: Yes. (he sometimes lies about this)
Me: C’mere (I sniff his breath, smells like toothpaste, we’re good to go.)
8:05 a.m. We’re in the car, running a bit late. Five minutes is crucial in get to school on time time.
On the way to school the girl, who decided not to carry her bookbag, starts complaining she has a lot to carry: her snack; big zippered binder and the Harry Potter book. The Boy, who had been a thorn in my side all morning (his dressing habits make me think I’m raising a metrosexual—I said this then had to explain the term to the Hubby) looks at her and very sincerely says, Sissy, I’ll help you carry your stuff if it’s too heavy.
Girl: That’s ok; you’ll be late to class.
Boy: I don’t care if I don’t get to go to the No Tardy Party, you’re more important than that.
Girl: I appreciate it but really, you don’t have to.
(Boy’s in kindergarten, Girl in 3rd, her class is on the other side of the school from his.)
sigh…I guess they’re good kids after all.