Surviving School Mornings

My life is not the most exciting.

I usually wake 10 minutes or so before my alarm is set to sound. I think it is my body’s way of screwing with me. I mean, not like I need to pee, because my body woke me at 4:00 AM for that.

My brain just turns on. But I lie there still, until my alarm goes off. Because every morning I believe that THIS could be the morning that I am actually able to fall back asleep, as quickly as my husband always does.

It didn’t happen today though.  Maybe tomorrow.

My alarm sounds for all of two seconds before I hit the button and rise out of bed. Luckily getting out of bed has always been easy for me.

Well, mentally easy but the older I get, the physical part is not so easy.

I get both legs on the floor and begin to hobble across the room. It takes a minute to adjust to being in the upright position. My back and hips are usually stiff and for some reason my heels have begun to hurt for no apparent reason.

My body clearly has a vendetta.

I head straight to the kitchen. I am officially on lunch duty. At 6:15 in the morning.

I have friends tell me that their children make their own lunches, each day. But with four, it is just easier for me to do it myself. I am faster and I make way less of a mess.

Way less.

Am I teaching them independence? No. But preserving my sanity is equally important.

And my love language is to do for others. It is how I show that I care.

SO I grab four lunch boxes from the cabinet and begin to stuff them with a good balance of fruits and veggies, that will more than likely ALL be returned to me at the end of the day, still neatly tucked in their containers.

Because my kids hate fruits and veggies. Well, veggies mostly. But I am a good mother.  I keep trying.

After the lunches are made, I make myself a cup of coffee. Because by now I am fully awake and fully aware that it has been HOURS since my last caffeine dose.

This is where, if time allows I have a quiet breakfast. Alone. Because it will be my last chance to have a clear thought, before the chaos ensues.

This quiet breakfast is my last chance to center. To prepare myself for the holy hell that is about to occur. It is kind of like preparing for battle. Because it is battle.

It is seven o’clock. Time to wake the children.

I walk through their rooms, opening blinds as I go. Letting the sunlight slowly spill inside.

Then I walk through the rooms again, this time softly saying each of their names. Because they are still children after all. Life doesn’t have to be so cruel just yet.

Fast forward to the part where I am yelling and threatening that if they don’t get out of bed RIGHT THIS SECOND, then they have practicaly already ruined their chances of getting into medical school.

Why even bother with elementary school?

Everyone is ultimately ushered to the kitchen. Time for breakfast. I look around at their sleepy, sad, grumpy faces.

Someone makes the mistake of uttering words. Any words will do. Because that is all it takes for the bickering to begin.

Ever single morning at breakfast, without failure, there is bickering. Which turns into debating. Which turns into arguing. Which sometimes leads to physical altercations.

My goal is to get breakfast served as quickly as possible. It has become clear to me that my children do not care for one another’s company, first thing in the morning.

Cut to: food is littering the room, there are eggs stuck in my daughter’s hair and my son is trying to catnap on a bar stool.

Breakfast is officially in the books.

Now they are all given the task of becoming presentable and getting ready to tackle the day. Clothes, hair, teeth, the whole shebang.

All this requires of me is constant nagging, threatening, begging, bribing and occasionally a few tears.

I will not apologize for stooping so low.

After what seems like days, everyone is ready for school. Well maybe not as ready as I am, but they know that they are required by law to receive an education. And they do NOT want to be homeschooled by me.

With backpacks, lunchboxes, water bottles and snacks in tow, everyone is instructed to get in the car.

And this is where the most difficult leg of the journey begins.

Four kids, and all of their crap, stuffed into the back of a Suburban.

Still sporting pajama pants, a messy bun and Ugg boots, (and whether or not I actually have on a bra is none of your business) I locate my car keys and off we go.

The distance to school is only around two miles.

But two miles is all it takes. You see, there are so many things that can and do go wrong each morning.

Someone looks at someone. Someone’s backpack is touching someone else. Someone is wearing a shirt that belongs to another.

These are all major offenses.

There are times when I roll up to the school, that all four children have dove from their car seats onto the floor of the vehicle, to participate in a brouhaha. Sometimes the moment is so out of control that I have only one mission in life:

To deliver them to the school door, without being arrested for child abuse.

There is nothing like that moment when the last door closes. And the car is flooded with deafening silence.

Are they still arguing on the sidewalk? I don’t want to know. I look straight ahead and drive away.

All I have to do is make it past that crossing guard and I am scot-free.

I look around at all the other mothers in their cars.

All I see is a bunch of coffee mugs, stunner shades and blank faces. They have been fighting their own battles.

We are all just surviving. One school day at a time.

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