Overslept
Yep, I overslept.
It’s 6:45 AM, and I have managed to successfully “snooze” 8 times and now, as I look at my phone, I realize that my son has approximately 6 minutes to get completely ready for school and BE at the bus stop.
I love starting the day with this much adrenaline.
I jump out of bed and run to stand over him, “GET UP, WE’VE GOT TO GO, YOU NEED TO GET DRESSED…NOW.”
I am 99.9% certain that I am more annoying than any alarm clock that has ever been invented. This is confirmed when he groans and pushes my face away, clearly rejecting being awakened boot camp style.
Where is his sense of urgency?
“GET UP.” I give one final nose-to-nose wake-up call.
I throw clothes at his head and run downstairs to make a bottle for the baby. I chuck a full milk bottle at my smiling, soaked-to-the-sheet-but-I-can’t-deal-with-that-right-now 2nd child and turn on his t.v. shows.
The baby gets really cranky when he misses his favorite program, “Find the Acorn.” I hover for a moment and he immediately pushes me out of the way so he can get a better view. It’s a daily nail biter, finding that acorn and I know it’s making him super smart because that’s what the commercial for the show promises to do.
Plus, anytime I can outsource parenting…I totally do that.
Satisfied that he’s getting nutrition AND increasing his IQ, I run back in to check on my other son only to find him whimpering in the middle of his room. He’s got arms where a head should be and he has no pants on. I resume my drill sergeant approach and continue to bark orders at him to hurry.
I do this because I definitely want him to grow up with anxiety.
“Mom, I can’t do this. I need help.”
“Sam, you are almost six…you can do this,” I say while holding six non-matching socks in my hands and trying to process for a second what I’m going to do with them. Where do all the socks go?
I finally decide to go with the two non-matching socks that would look the least different when a shoe is on. I just hope it’s not “take your shoes off and ‘out’ your mom” day at school because the bottoms are two totally different colors.
I then drag Sam downstairs.
The next 1.5 minutes is spent brushing teeth, packing a nutritionally questionable lunch and trying to find a discouraging way to ask if he wants breakfast.
We then begin running down the street to the bus stop…this is great because I am incredibly prepared to run.
This also coincides with my daily prayer time and meditation.
Please, God, don’t let him miss the bus. Please, God, don’t let my heart explode.
We make it to the bus stop and I am unable to return the greetings of the other parents as I’m bent over nursing a running cramp and panting.
Suddenly, my son shrieks. “MOM…IT’S SHOW AND TELL DAY!”
There is no more terrifying sound than a kid shrieking “Mom” and then following it up with something you have 8 seconds to go find, make or buy for school.
I look down at my pajamas in the hopes that something cool for show and tell somehow got caught on my body as I was walking out the door.
Nope…not today.
As the bus comes into view, I explain that we’ll see if we can do show-and-tell some other time. Which seems to appease him. I mean THAT or me promising to buy him some toy he doesn’t need and with a million pieces that I’m certain will spend most of their time in the mouth of the one-year-old.
Part of this promise is to make up for show-and-tell and part of it is hush money so he won’t tell anyone how our morning went and I won’t feel as guilty.
I reflect on all the ways I have already failed as a parent before the sun has even come up when I then remember accidentally spilling wine on his reading assignment the night before.
How is the best way to start a here-is-why-my son’s-reader-smells-like-Chardonnay email?
I watch my son hop on the bus saying one more prayer that the horrific case of bed head clears up before he reaches the school and I finally turn to go.
I make my way back to my house, frightening myself when passing the hall mirror and getting a good look at the beast that walked her son to the bus stop. I lean my face two inches from my Keurig and wait for the coffee to brew before heading upstairs to make sure that they did indeed find the acorn.
Which, I’m happy to say, they did.
Originally published at http://www.rachelwriteshere.com.
