My five-year old, Blonde, is now in kindergarten.  So, now we have mornings now that go like this:

Me:  Blonde, I need you to eat, dress, brush, and get your backpack on.  Maybe all in that order.  And within the next seven minutes.  I realize this is totally unrealistic but alarm clocks are hard.

Blonde:  I cannot respond to this.  It’s like BIG early.

Me:  Blonde, clothes, oatmeal, toothbrush – HERE.  Don’t be overwhelmed little one. Just try to remember to put your underpants on first.

Blonde:  Why? Why da underpants first?

Me:  BLONDE, WOULD YOU PLEASE GET GOING. NOW. WE NEED TO GET A MOVE ON.  LET’S GO. IT’S TIME TO GO. LIKE OUT THE DOOR. WE NEED TO GO.  LIKE, RIGHT NOW.  LEAVING.  LEAVING NOW.

Blonde:  I call your bluff, lady.  And Red is still sitting on the floor in the kitchen with his oatmeal.  Evidently he doesn’t think he can eat it. Or that tables are a thing.

Henry: (faintly, from the kitchen):  It’s too buttery.

Blonde: He’s crazy.

Me: He is crazy.  How can anything be too buttery?  Blonde, your hair. Smush it down.  And your pants are on backwards.

Blonde: I am expressing my individual creativity.  I gotta be me.

 

The cat just sauntered past.  He has not eaten, brushed, and he has no underpants on either.  This is chaos.

Me:  Ok troops. This is Momsie.  We are now in level ORANGE.  I repeat, Level ORANGE.  IF WE DON’T GET TO SCHOOL ON TIME THE TEACHER WILL BE MAD.  I CANNOT HANDLE THAT; I AM A TEACHER.  WE JUDGE EACH OTHER.  WE TELL YOU WE DON’T BUT WE DO.

REPORT TO THE DOOR, STAT!  AND I WILL SMUSH THE HAIR, BLONDE.  YOU ARE NOT HARRY STYLES.  NOT YET.

 

 

The troops headed out, on time. I was pretty sure Jesus just decided to take pity on  me and stopped time for a bit. He can do that, you know.  Once we got to the school, Blonde set his helmet on his handlebars, and started to tip over a bit on his bike.

“Mom! Catch me if I fell!”

I did.  And I will.  At least for a little longer.

But if you’re late, you’re gonna have to deal with your teacher yourself.  Unless it’s my fault.  Then we’ll just tell her I just got out of the hospital, brain surgery, something like that.  I am pretty sure she would buy it.

 

Red, as we are heading back on our bikes, glances back at the big school.  “Yep.  He’s in der!”  He heads for a hill.

“Here we goooooooooooooo!”

Yep. Here we go.

Carol’s mother is a lot more relaxed about this whole deal.  And Carol has creepy eyes. Maybe that’s why – Carol needs to Get. Out.