Mornings in our house are berserk. From 6am until 8:30am it is pure mayhem. Breakfast foods are prepared, lunches are packed, clothing flies, water runs, coffee flows like wine, paperwork piles and shuffles and covers surfaces, tempers run high... Things such as "Go!" and "Hurry!" and "Move it or lose it!" are said. Peyton is the first to be dropped off. I hustle out to the car with her, Owen on my hip. I'm usually in a fashionable array of yoga gear and pajamas at this point. Coffee cup in hand. I dash back to finish getting Quinny and Brookie ready. Then it is in to the car with them as well. Usually and hopefully I have graduated to real clothing at this point. But not always. We all pile out of the car in front of their school with the other parents who are hustling their little ones to class before the bell rings. Owen loves this. As I walk/jog the girls across the crosswalk he says, "Vroom! Vroom!" to the buses as they charge by. After I kiss the girls and wait for Brookie to go all the way inside her class with the other kindergarteners, I (slowly now) meander back to the car. When I get in, it is always the same feeling: Thank Baby Jesus - we did it. And I sigh and wonder, each and every time, how it happened. It is always a blur, and it always feels miraculous. When Owen and I get home, it is so quiet compared to the chaos just minutes before. We do a little damage control -- which usually entails wiping syrup, picking up discarded pajamas, and loading the dishwasher... And then it's just the two of us... We go upstairs and play a bit before his nap. It is quiet and peaceful. It is our special time. I love that we get to have this time. It makes me happy.
No comments:
Post a Comment