At the high point of raising four kids — ages 6 and under — I arose one morning, yet again sleep-deprived, and corralled the children for breakfast.
Pulling down the Cheerios bag I realized someone had left it open — and down came a rain of cereal over literally half the kitchen floor.
After cleaning it up, and while getting cereal for the other children, my 4-year-old bumped her cereal bowl to create one of those splattery, upturned, it-goes-everywhere messes, on the other side of the kitchen floor (and kitchen table and kitchen chairs).
Cleaning this up — with gentle, encouraging phrases like “You’re gonna miss the bus! Hustle your bustle now!” — I realized that the chores from last night had not been completed. My daughter couldn’t find the “right” shirt to wear and was in a tear-filled breakdown, and my other son, who had sworn to finish his homework, had instead joined everyone else and — at the hand of their father — listened intently to a sports game.
By this time, the dictator in me had taken over and I began barking commands: “You — hair gel.” “You — backpack.” “No — shoes are not an option for school.”
Then I heard that sound that makes us all freeze in midair — the sound of a rumbling school bus passing our driveway. In one of those classic mother moments that you swear you will never experience, I said in an I-told-you-so yelling tone, “You’ve missed your bus. Get your fannies to the stop sign and stay together.”
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Best,
Connie
