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.

Pebbles Upon a Stone

I don't run.   I don't jog.  I walk.  And Tuesday,  out of the walking routine, I wandered.  Wearing pants with no pockets, I carried my phone. The wander turned into a 5k meander.  The phone became a camera.

Many years ago Bill and I went with friends to Belize and spent a week on a live-aboard scuba diving boat.  The ocean was our backyard.  The swim deck was always open, and we relied on our dive computers to beep and tell us when it was safe to return to the water.  We had to be on deck for so long to let the nitrogen leave our bodies before safely diving again.  We dove at night as well.  For the first few nights, I followed the group looking for nocturnal lobster.  Bored with that nightly hunt, I turned my attention to the boat's photographer.

Charlie had an impressive camera and barely moved 15 feet along the ocean wall while everyone else chased lobsters.  On about the fourth night dive, I asked if I could tag along with him.  The abundance of nocturnal macro-life on the ocean wall was astounding.  Most memorable was a basket sea star that had unfurled its tendrils to find dinner.  I'm still in awe of the myriad of life in the 3x3-foot sections of wall we covered that night.

My walk today was that kind of journey.  I have been on this particular path many times.  Even though the sky was gray, the fall colors were bright.  The scenic view was beautiful but hard to capture.  Little tidbits sometimes paint the best picture of the whole.

I passed the Jewish cemetery and noticed small stones and pebbles on many of the headstones.  My first thought was that kids had stole into the cemetery and deposited these, but the rocks were orderly and seemed purposely placed.

At the end of my photo journey and back at the house, I looked for an explanation on-line and discovered that it's tradition for Jews to lay stones on the graves of loved ones.  The original rationale for this tradition varies from a grave marker before head stones were used to holding the spirits of loved ones in the grave longer.  Today, placing a stone is a sign of respect and a way to honor the memory of a loved one.

Unlike flowers, stones are timeless, solid, and strong.

50 Miles a Day

50 miles a day.  That’s what the trip meter says in the van.  That’s not equivalent to 50 minutes driving on an open highway in the Midwest.  The conversion of mileage to time is in hours. I believe I once purchased Dragon software, which is voice recognition software – I talk and it types.  Would it work in the van?  Could I write while I drive when those fleeting thoughts pop and I feel a story come on?  Or would it end up in cryptic one-liners?

“Hi Kathy, when I dropped Liam off at your house, I noticed Jennifer was in her formal pinafore for mass.  Could you please tuck in Liam’s shirt before you leave for school?  I think that will do.”  One minute later: “Hi.  It’s me again.  Liam doesn’t have a stuffed animal to be blessed today.  Could he borrow one from Jennifer?”  The teacher sent photos of the class with their favorite stuffed animals.  They were adorable, including Liam in the front row with the borrowed panda.

Last Monday’s early email from Will: “Trumpet!”  The previous Monday’s early email: “Trumpet!”  11-mile return round-trips.

“Mom, we haven’t used our dining room in a long time,” Will’s observation.  Summer eating al fresco has ended.  I’ve invited friends for dinner Sunday evening.  A sure fire way to get the table cleared.  Except, they are old friends… they wouldn’t be overwhelmed by the dining room piles and would be fine eating in the kitchen.  I might need new friends to accomplish the clearing.

“You’ve lost your electronics privilege for Friday!”  I regret it every time those frustrated words fly out of my mouth.  Liam begged for a way to retrieve that privilege.  I gave him an option: Write a letter to Mom.  Think about good things and the Golden Rule.  “You’ve talked about the Golden Rule in school, haven’t you?”  A glum ‘yes’ was the reply.  The assignment specifics: One full type-written page, Arial font – because I love that font, font-size 14, single-spaced.  “I can’t do this!”  But he did, with a little coaching.  It was a lovely letter.  “Now, at the end of the letter write what you learned.”   A one-liner appeared.  “I can’t hate people.  I can hate broccoli.”  Liam saved the file as “mom’s punishment.”  I told him I would have titled it “mom’s learning tool.”

No matter where the errands and drop-offs are or what the conversation is in the van, the road home is the same.  It’s a glorious road, and it’s the one daily constant in the routine of the week’s driving.  I drive it slowly and stop to take pictures.   “The Holly and the Ivy” tune runs through my head with the words “The Turkeys and the Ivy...”

Here's to fall driving.