How is it that our kids went to bed at 10:30 last night?

One more. One sec. And it’s 10 p.m. Peeling them out of the house in the morning is like pulling four pieces of chewing gum off the bottom of my shoe. Only it’s accompanied by growls.

One shower lasted 15 minutes. “One sec.” “One sec.” “One sec.” Consequently, I put away the cereal, bowl, spoon, and milk. I knew it would be a granola-bar-in-the-car morning. Or no breakfast at all because, after all, how can one eat anything with the taste of toothpaste in one’s mouth? It ruins the taste of all food.

I’m a morning person. My candle burns low after 8 p.m., which is when I begin as the caller of this square dance, calling each move four times – finish your homework, put your homework in your backpack, put the books on the shelf, put your Bakugans away, brush your teeth, floss your teeth, wash your face, go to the bathroom, pick up your clothes, give me the book and the light under the sheets. Then, I just want to lie in peace for an hour. Until 11:00. And that makes me a night person. Unhappy when my alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m. to be a morning person.

When I try my “Good morning, hun, your alarm went off. It’s time to get up,” it falls on ears of children that went to bed at 10:30. The utterance of these words fall harshly on non-morning children. I’m ignored or grunted and growled at. One grunts a pained “mmmmmm.” The other growls a guttural “rrrrrrrrr.”

While I goaded Liam this morning with ten minutes to get to school and a multitude of tasks undone, Liam leisurely explained that “it doesn’t take that long to get to school.” Yes, yes. So true. Wait right here – let me just warm up the Mom-mobile and get my super cape on so that I can fly you there.” Honestly, I want to be late enough one day that we don’t make it on time. I want him to explain to the teacher why we are late. I want him to give MY explanation (15-minute shower) NOT his (Mom). A broken strategy.

Perhaps I need a reward system, for my words fail me. Before I embark on another one of those, I’m going with two-word utterances in the morning. Directives. Unarguable. Because I’m the Mom. “Shower. Now.” “Dress. Now.” “Eat. Now.”

My attempt at pleasantries with supporting reasons “why” are lost.  The words of reason are swallowed on the sound waves like those of Charlie Brown’s teacher, even though there are only two feet between me and those young ears.

My gut says this two-word strategy may work. This morning, I landed at school with the other Mom-mobiles double-parked – their capes flying out their windows. Rather than saying “have a great day,” “we are here,” “put the book down” and other niceties, I used two words briskly spaced. “Get. Out.” Immediate action. “Backpack. Lunch bag.” And out the door he went. Two minutes after the bell had rung, but 30 seconds before the last kid entered the school.

Happy Hump Day.

from summer to fall with a pocketful of prayer

From the outside, I may have wavy hair but on the inside, I’m sporting the Rosanne-Roseannadanna look: frizzled bushy hair standing straight out. The back-to-school factory went into full production at 6:00 this morning. Two different breakfasts, three different lunches, two fully-equipped backpacks. One bowl drawer filled only with lids. One snack drawer overflowing to the point of not shutting. Two different school uniforms all tried on -- except for one belt.

One last-minute realization that Liam had never operated a belt before left one worst-case scenario screaming through this one mother's head.

Bill left for school with Will at 7:15. I completed drop-off and flag ceremony at Liam’s school at 8:30.

One 30-minute lull before the library opened meant a cup of coffee and a heated-up omelet. In peace. That wasn’t easy, for there were two of me prattling on this morning: one wondered what I could clean-up in 30 minutes and the other told me to be still for 30 minutes.

My coffee mug has a chip out of the rim, just to the right of where I drink from it. I put up with the chip because I love the mug. Black tree branches radiate from the bottom of the handle. The branches are sparsely populated with bright red maple leaves.

We have been out on the thin end of that branch called summer. It started with a strong surge of freedom and ended with a push to the end of the branch where we splintered precariously. To get the most out of summer. Before it retreated.

With the boys both at new schools, the underlying edge is only somewhat smoothed with the first days of drop-off being behind us. The urge to swoop and rescue them from uncertainty started in my gut, raged through my heart, and stopped short of my tongue. For the last two days, at two different schools, this urge landed mysteriously as a supportive smile on my lips as they walked away. That's how motherhood flows.

As I drink my coffee, I take a walk down that branch of summer back to the stability of thicker branches at the base of the handle. And, I make a tight turn to that solid branch called fall. But my legs are still shaking from summer. Or caffeine.

I think of days when I have been strong, full of courage, and solidly grounded. Five years ago, I was moving through life with a pocketful of prayer. Today, I get that tool, use it, and put it in my pocket. Most of that prayer is still apt today. But I’ve added just a couple bits:

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“Every day, may our minds grow and our hearts stay full.

And, please, let the bowl drawer, the lunch bags, and the uniforms be organized, full, and complete.”

I think He understands little things like this.

(This was inspired by Power & Prayer, written during chemo treatment for breast cancer in 2009.)