Family Daze: Our Morning Rush Hour

"Hurry, get in the car," I called to my children one morning after breakfast.

They rounded the corner and grabbed their backpacks off the living room floor as they ran past me into the garage. I looked at my watch.

"Four minutes until school starts," I said.

I started the car and forced myself to drive down the street without going over the speed limit. The instant I pulled to a stop, the school bell rang, and my children catapulted out the door towards the kindergarten and third grade classrooms, leaving a cloud of dust behind them.

As I watched them disappear into the distance, I thought back wistfully to the good old days before my mornings were a blur of cold cereal, sticky backpacks and Velcro shoes. I remember a time when I used to eat a leisurely breakfast and be out the door, with makeup and panty hose in place, 20 minutes after I woke up.

Luckily, both of my children like school so I know they don’t try to be late intentionally. The problem, I’ve concluded, is that they just don’t have a good understanding of time.

Every morning I go into each of my child’s rooms, open the blinds, and say softly "Good morning. It’s time to get up."

Then I say it again. And again.

Usually, somewhere around the four or fifth repetition, something deep inside me snaps. I begin saying things louder and louder until I am completely unglued. By the time they are eating breakfast, I have a wild look in my eyes and I’m shouting all sorts of unreasonable things like "chew faster" or "take bigger bites" or, in more desperate moments, "if you’re not done in two minutes, I’m calling the police."

Oh, I used to get all kinds of unsolicited advice. My husband who has no idea what really goes on in the morning after he leaves for work, suggested I get the children’s clothes and lunches ready the night before. It sounded like a reasonable plan so I agreed to try it.

However, I soon learned that something mysterious happens to children while they’re sleeping that automatically voids out any decision they made the previous day. The first time we let Heather pick out her clothes, she woke up the next morning and stared at the red jumper she had spent thirty-five minutes picking out the night before as if she had never seen it before.

"You don’t expect me to wear THAT?" she asked.

I also found out that very few people in this world, and none who live at my house, are willing to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that spent the night in the refrigerator. Even if you beg.

Another naive soul once suggested I wake my children up earlier and give them more time to get ready. This worked fine initially, but after the first few days they started to catch on, and began to squeeze in extra activities like watching cartoons or playing the piano, which would inevitably make us late again.

I finally settled on a more direct approach. "We don’t have time for things like watching television, playing concertos, and baking cakes in the morning," I explained slowly. "Things would go a lot smoother if we all stuck to doing more mundane activities like getting dressed and eating breakfast." I could tell by the looks on their faces that I would have made more progress if I had suggested they should sprout wings and fly to school on the backs of crazed monkeys.

Every Wednesday I start fantasizing about the weekend. I imagine doing all kinds of wild and crazy things like sleeping in to 10 o’clock, talking in a calm voice, and even having time to make pancakes together.

As a matter of fact, I begin to think how much nicer it would be if we could borrow a couple of hours from Saturday and attach it to, say, Monday morning. Or transfer a little bit of Friday night to Tuesday. Or, perhaps, just divide Sunday into five equal parts and distribute it evenly throughout the week.

But, if I’ve learned anything at all raising children for the past eight years, it’s that, sometimes, the best thing to change about a losing situation — is you.

So the next time my children refused to get out of bed, I threw back the covers and tickled them. Instead of serving cereal for breakfast, I served portable food that doesn’t stain. And each morning, instead of threatening or begging, we have a contest to see who can brush their teeth, put on their shoes, eat breakfast, and get in the car first.

Of course, I’m not sure how long this will last. But my friends with teenagers have assured me that getting my children out of the house will become easier as they grow older. It’s getting them home on time that will become the real challenge.

But, between you and me, I’ll worry about that when it happens.

Debbie Farmer is a humorist and mother holding down the fort in California. Readers can reach Debbie at her web site, www.familydaze.com, or at Debbie Farmer, c/o Oasis Newsfeatures, P. O. Box 2144, Middletown, Ohio, 45042.