Diary of an Omniturnal Mom

The morning rodeo, er, routine

The last time I wrote an ominiturnal mom post, all three kids were at home. While it is slightly less hectic with only two, mornings are a three ring circus. 

6:48 a.m. Mommy wakes up in a panic and realizes that she is driving the boy to school this morning, then going straight to a friend's house for a play date. There would be no throwing kids in the car with pajamas on this morning. They leave in a hour.

She does some mental calculations and determines that the best way to get three breakfasts, three vitamins and three drinks on the table and one lunch for the boy and two snack bags for the others ready is to NOT wake the kids up just yet. Sounds counter-intuitive, but it works. She pulls on clothes straight from the laundry basket where her clean clothes live these days and checks to be sure the shirt is right side out. It is, she decides.

6:55 a.m. Mommy turns on the lights in the kids' rooms. Two out of three are fast asleep. The school boy is humping a pillow and peering through the bedrails at her. Creepy. She lays out clothes on the beds of the younger two.

"Good morning, sunshines," she sings, then quickly leaves, knowing they won't get up for at least another five minutes. Surely she can get cereal and juice on the table in that time and dole out the vitamins (2 multis and 2 fish oils per kid) in the proper colors and shapes to arrange the perfect pattern. (Have I mentioned my son likes patterns? Every morning, the vitamins must be put into a pattern and he eats them in a pattern while I am reminded with each one he pops into his mouth to WATCH MOM WATCH. Now he has his sister doing the same thing.)

7:05 a.m. Fiona appears first, actually wearing the outfit she's been dealt. Normally, girl face goes through three different outfits, throwing the rejects (clean) into the hamper. Mommy twitches just thinking about this. Owen follows closely behind holding his clothes and whining something about getting dressed. She tells him to fetch a diaper to buy herself more time to throw together lunch and snacks.

Mommy throws a bag of crackers, a hunk of cheese, a few fruit rollups and oranges and two water bottles into a bag. Done. Lunch for Danny? Leftover meatballs, a cheese stick, crackers, salad and cottage cheese; a granola bar and apples; and an Easter egg full of chocolate covered raisins. Done. A small voice in her head says she could probably have done all this the night before instead of staying up late playing Words with Friends and watching TMZ. Mommy tells that bitch to shut the hell up.

7:10 a.m. Danny wanders down fully dressed but wearing Spiderman slippers and no socks. Fine. Just come to breakfast, kid.

Now, getting a child with ADHD to eat breakfast in a short amount of time is often a maddening and somewhat hilarious prospect if you can keep your sense of humor. Instead of chanting eat at random intervals, Mommy decides to use Danny's love of patterns to her advantage. Sipping a cup of coffee across the table from him, she tells him, "Danny, here's a pattern for you: two bites of food, one drink, and repeat."

It works. Until he gets to the repeat part, looks around and says, "I have freckles."

Face palm.

Mommy verbally recites the pattern several times as he complies. As soon as she stops reciting, he stops eating and turns to the window.

"Look mom, a bird."

Smacks forehead.

Meanwhile, the two year old is randomly roaring at his brother and lunging from his seat.

7:20 a.m. He's eaten about as much as she can get him to eat. She sends him off for shoes and socks.

"Socks and shoes, mom," he corrects her.

Whatever. It's not like he'll actually remember to do it.

7:35 a.m. She finds him up in his room playing with paper airplanes on his floor. Startled by her presence, he gets up and starts downstairs.

"Do you have socks on?" she asks.

"Oh, I forgot."

Of course you did.

7:40 a.m. Mommy tries to corral the two year old to put on socks and shoes. She calls him and tells him to sit. He runs circles around her three times before climbing clumsily onto the chair and thrusting his foot into her leg. Meanwhile, the only child who is doing as she's told is the girl, who came down fully dressed to the socks and must now only find jacket and shoes.

7:45 a.m. "Jacket Danny," Mommy calls out.

"I left it at school," he says.

Of course you did. You bring home a half dozen sheets of paper filled with car drawings and massive sculptures made from scraps yet forget just why you're freezing your toucus off waiting for dismissal.

"Shoes Danny." Mommy finds that he responds better to short bursts rather than long, loud sentences (otherwise known as mommy flipping her lid).

He sits IN FRONT OF the door to puts his shoes on as we're all trying to get out the door. Thank you, Captain Oblivious.

7:50 a.m. Miraculously, all are in the car, ready to go. Mommy totally rocks.

....

9:30 a.m. After school drop off, they head to her friend's house. Upon arrival, Mommy realizes her shirt is in fact on inside out.