Sometimes I think we’re a fairly normal family. Other times, I wonder if we are fit to socialize with our fellow human beings.
You tell me.
Here was the scene at my house this morning:
Everything was going along smoothly. People were eating breakfast. Others were getting dressed. No one was screaming or crying or knocking each other’s heads into the wall. So I sat down to take a sip of coffee and get a couple of quick things done on my computer.
Then I looked up at the time on the screen.
Then I went into drill sergeant mode.
“We’re going to miss the bus! Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go!”
Our bus routine is timed to the minute. We walk out our door at exactly 7:41, by the kitchen clock. My computer screen said 7:41.
I sprung into action, checked the kitchen clock. 7:44.
My crowning achievement has been that we have never missed the bus. And now we were in danger of doing just that because EVERY FREAKING CLOCK IN OUR HOUSE IS SET TO A DIFFERENT TIME! And because I let my guard down. NEVER let your guard down.
The time on my phone is different from my computer is different from the kitchen is different from the family room.
It’s only by a matter of a minute or two, but a minute is critical to our success. Stray just a little and despite our best efforts, despite huffing and puffing and flailing our arms, we’ll see nothing but tail lights as we round the corner. And drop off at the elementary school is something I have absolutely no interest in. Not the way I am dressed (flannel snowman pajama pants). Not the way my hair is matted on one side, sticking straight up on the other, in true Flock of Seagulls fashion.
I start screaming.
“We’re going to miss the bus!!!”
This doesn’t raise an eyebrow with my 8-year-old. At first. Mostly because I say this EVERY morning. Then we get to the bus stop and 99.9 percent of the time, we are the first ones there and my son looks at me with great disdain.
Then I scream again. Louder. I am not acting like a sane person whose child is about to miss his bus to school. I am acting as if there is a wildfire burning in the middle of our dining room and we are all in serious danger of perishing. And if I have learned anything about raising a family, it’s that the children pick up whatever the mother is dropping.
And I am dropping a lot of craziness.
My son begins to exaggerate his movements in anger. He’s “trying” to put his coat on really fast, but puts it on backwards, while he is also trying to put his shoes on while I am running around, flinging random food items into his lunchbox for snack. I imagine I hear the school bus roaring down the street.
“Come on! Let’s go!” I yell.
“What do you think I’m doing? What the heck?” My son is also yelling now. My 4-year-old is covering his ears at the breakfast table. My 18-month-old is just smiling, but it’s one of those smiles she’s giving me in the hopes that I’ll smile back at her. She’s hoping beyond hope that her family hasn’t finally just lost it.
“Why are you freaking out?” I yell at the 8-year-old.
Hold up. I know exactly why he is freaking out. Because I am freaking out. Big time. But in the moment, I can’t get a grip and I am barking orders at him, glaring while he tries to straighten out the back of his shoe to fit his foot in and sling his backpack over his back.
“This is the latest we’ve ever been!” I say predictably. Me with my Flock of Seagulls hair and snowman pajama pants.
And in this exact moment, I believe – no, I know – I have lost just a little bit of my children’s respect. And respect is hard to come by.
We finally get out the door.
“Run!” I yell, and I begin to run down the street in my flip flops. My 8-year-old jogs behind me.
“Why did you call me a freak?” he’s yelling.
“I didn’t!” I call behind me. “I asked why you were freaking out! Let’s go!”
We round the corner and there is no one there. “See. We’re the first ones! We’re not late!” my son yells spitefully. The bus pulls down the street. We walk up to the stop. I take a deep breath and give my son a kiss on the cheek, as sweetly as I can. “Have a great day!” I say cheerfully. The other children run to catch the bus while my son sits down, begins chatting with a friend.
The bus starts to pull away.
But not before I notice that there is a little girl staring at me through the window. She doesn’t look happy. In fact, she looks a little angry. Then I remember my Flock of Seagulls hair and snowman pajama pants and turn to walk home. Laughing all the way.
