"We need to talk," R. said to me upon his arrival home from work last night.
Never good words.
He swallowed hard, heaved a put upon sigh. "We need to figure out a way to get through the morning shuffle without behaving like we belong on the Jerry Springer show."
"I'm embarrassed to see the neighbors," he said. "Maybe we should go around and apologize."
I shook my head doubtfully. "An apology includes an implicit suggestion that it won't happen again."
I think at this point he walked upstairs to change.
"We could send everyone booze at the holidays," I yelled upstairs hopefully. "Or something from Harry and David."
"If you can't get this under control, we are going to have to move to the suburbs."
Of course his complaint has merit.
First, I'd like to take this moment to apologize publicly to any mothers with whom I worked in an office during my single days.
I had no idea. I am so sorry for ever rolling my eyes or wondering what the big deal was with getting a five-year-old dressed, fed, teeth brushed, shoes on, and out the door at some appointed time. Or wondering why you showed up with wet hair or looking hung over, when you weren't going out and tying one on after work.
The Grape is just like his mom in three ways: he has what one might politely call a Latin temperament, he slumps in the afternoon and gets a maddening second wind at bedtime, and he likes to lounge in the mornings.
In his perfect world, he'd play with Legos for an hour, take another forty-five minutes to an hour to eat, and then get on with the day.
In my perfect world, I'd let him do that, and spend the time reading and sucking down coffee. In a perfect world, he'd go to bed before 7:30.
In the real world, I can put him in bed by then, but he won't fall asleep before nine anyway.
In the real world, we also need to leave for the school bus stop by 7:45 a.m.
(Aside: Why is school so damned early? Because the issue isn't going to school. The Grape LOVES school. The issue is the start time.)
Every morning this week, I dragged the Grape's reluctant, bawling, sobbing, begging, protesting form down from the top bunk by 7:15, my chest heavy with mom guilt because my kid wasn't sleeping enough. I couldn't bring myself to rouse him earlier, but a half hour pushes our luck in terms of leaving the house with any semblance of order or calm.
Every morning this week, I pleaded, begged, bribed, cajoled, threatened and ultimately yelled like an escapee from a lunatic asylum, about every step. Take off pajamas. Put on clothes. Eat. Eat. Eat. Please, for the love of God, eat one bite of Cheerios. Good. Now eat another. Please. Please. You will lose your Legos and/or play dates for the week if you don't eat another bite right now. I mean it. Right now. Brush teeth. Brush hair. Repeat threats in shriller voice. Find shoes. Put on shoes.
The Grape yells right back. I'll say this for him, the kid has a will of steel and he can give as good as he gets.
Thursday and Friday mornings were extra special.
We left the house at a jog at 7:48, the Grape wailing in such a way that might provoke a new neighbor to call the police, and screaming that I was hurting his arm by pulling him along, me in tears because I was "that mom" who sends her child to school on an empty stomach, and Lila the Dog straining on her leash, doing her canine best to pretend not to know us.
This needs improvement.