The Morning Routine That Is Never Routine

You would think that after doing the exact same morning routine for approximately twelve consecutive years, I would have it mastered. A well-oiled machine. A graceful conductor of breakfast foods and backpacks. A woman who calmly sips hot coffee while her children independently prepare for the day, or as independently as their age allows.

You would be wrong.

Every single morning feels like a surprise attack. I wake up genuinely shocked that we are once again expected to wake children, clothe them, feed them, pack lunches, and arrive at the bus stop on time—as if this hasn’t been the deal since forever. The to-do list never changes. And yet, somehow, I’m always sprinting out the door like this information was just sprung on me moments ago.

Today was no exception.

My youngest—five years old and delightful 50% of the time—woke up on the wrong side of the bed. And by wrong side, I mean the side where everything is offensive. The pajamas were wrong. The socks were wrong. The air was wrong. I was wrong. She followed me around like a tiny, emotional shadow, clinging to my leg and whining with the stamina of a professional endurance athlete.

So, we're dealing with that 50% today," I said to myself. "Grrreeeaaat," I groaned inside my head.

By 7:37 a.m., I knew exactly what was happening. She was hangry. Deeply, dangerously hangry. And because I am a seasoned mother who has seen this movie before, I did what any reasonable person would do: I tried to get food into her body before she fully transformed into a gremlin.

“Toast?” No.

“Chocolate granola bar?” No.

“Eggs?” Absolutely not.

“Literally anything?” How dare I.

She rejected every suggestion like a food critic at a five-star restaurant, while I calmly explained (through clenched teeth) that food is not optional and yes, eating might improve her current state of misery. Spoiler alert: it did not.

We eventually made it out the door—running late, of course—but moving. I was feeling cautiously optimistic when, halfway to the bus stop, my 5-year-old decided she was FREEZING even though she had refused the coat I tried to get on her before walking out the door. Perfect.

I told her to keep walking to her aunt who was already walking down her driveway as I jogged back to the coat that she didn't want in the first place.

Jogging back to the bus stop, coat in hand to give it to my daughter who is still standing at the end of my sisters driveway, still 4 houses shy of the bus stop, my nine-year-old, who is at the bus stop, yells at me: “Mom, today is hat day!”

Hat. Day.

Ah yes. The hat day that I distinctly remember reminding her about when she was getting dressed this morning. That hat day.

And, obviously, my 5-year-old gremlin decided that, even though she never wears hats more than 30 seconds, she wanted one too. "Can I have a hat?!"

I dropped my head and sighed.

And began running (more like a brisk jog because, honestly, I don't run).

Back to the house I went, where I grabbed the first two hats I saw in our winter bin. One of them had a hole in the top, but listen: you get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

Especially at this point in the morning.

As I head back out the door, my phone rings. It’s my sister, who apparently was a functioning adult this morning with her kids (we take turns).

“The bus is early,” she says.

Of course it is.

So now I'm sprinting (jogging faster). I jump in the car and drive towards the bus stop and by some miracle—by the lucky stars and the kindness of an angel disguised as a bus driver—I pull up just as the bus starts to drive away…and then stops.

I leap out, hats in hand, delivering them like priceless artifacts. My daughters put them on immediately. Crisis averted. Teachers spared the wrath of vengeful children. The whiny energy successfully passed off to the next shift.

And there I stood, watching the bus pull away, breathing heavily, wondering how something I do every single morning can still manage to feel like an unscheduled emergency.

Tomorrow, I will wake up thinking this time will be different. Tomorrow, I will believe we are prepared.

Tomorrow, I will be wrong.

But for today? The kids made the bus. The hats were worn. And the coffee—eventually—was reheated one last time.

And honestly? That’s a win.