You know that meme where it’s a picture of Te Fiti in Moana that reads something like, “The first seventeen times I ask you to put on your shoes,” and then below it is a picture of Te Ka that reads, “The eighteenth time I ask you to put on your shoes”? Well, that was me in the morning, every morning, until my own forgetfulness caused me to take a hard look in the mirror.
See, every school morning started the same way: no matter how many minutes earlier I got up, or how many tasks I delegated (or skipped altogether, let’s be serious), my children were always lollygagging their way out the door. One would launch into an incredibly detailed explanation of what every Pokemon ever can do, while the other would search endlessly for the mate to a glitter Mary Jane that has been missing since 2011. This would leave me thinking, “wait, Pokemon cards do something and aren’t just useless nonsense a la Shopkins?” followed by “I don’t have time to think about dumb toys right now,” which quickly morphed into, “OMG WHAT is taking so long?” and finally, “GET YOUR SHOES ON AND GET IN THE CAR BEFORE I LOSE MY EVER-LOVING MIND!” It’s possible that I didn’t so much as think that last one versus scream it out loud (emphasis on “scream”).
In general, I am not an angry person. I’m not a yeller by nature, and yet every single morning I was yelling my way from the front door to the car. I am not proud of these moments. Quite the opposite, in fact. My cheeks burn when I recall berating my children with, “I am NOT going to be late to my meeting AGAIN because of YOU!” I feel the pinpricks of tears when I think about the moments lost and the rides to school wasted. These are precious times we can’t get back, and rather than cherishing the mundane, I was seething my way through it.
Then one morning, we left on time. As we backed out of the driveway, I remember thinking, “finally! We will have the happy-sitcom-family banter-filled morning I’ve always known we were destined for!” A few minutes later, I realized I’d left my laptop in the family room. I became “Mom in Crisis” who talks gently to her children so as not to alarm them. “Don’t worry kids, I forgot my laptop, so we have to go back home. You’ll be late to school, but it’s my fault, and I’ll tell your teachers.” My anxious daughter worried, as I knew she would, and my active son mourned the loss of playing basketball in the gym before school started. I continued in tones that rivaled Michelle Duggar in their eerie calm: “I’m sorry, guys. These things happen, and it’s my fault. I have an idea: we’re so late now, how about a donut? You want munchkins?”
I retrieved my laptop, we hit Dunkin’, and we went on our merry way. We were about fifteen minutes late, and we all lived. They didn’t get in trouble; I didn’t get fired. Obviously it’s not a practice we could institute as an every day or even once-a-week occurrence, but honestly, sometimes people are late. Sometimes people forget things. And then it hit me…
Why was I so hard on my children when they made us late, but so easy on myself? What exactly was I teaching them by yelling at them and then very nearly celebrating with donuts when it was my fault? I didn’t want to even discover the answer to that question, so instead, I vowed to stop yelling in the morning and to accept that an inability to find a matched set of shoes is just a part of being five. While we may not have time to brush the cat at 7:00 a.m., those few seconds won’t make us that much later. I decided that there might actually be joy in listening to my son recite his infinite Pokemon knowledge. And ultimately, I’ve truly discovered that the mood of our mornings is a choice, and I choose “happy.”
