Thirty minutes before church

 Opening scene: Mom drags herself out of bed at 7AM with a splitting headache—not her preferred way to begin a workday. Her sons seems relatively amiable, if tired, and husband is exhausted from full weekend of concerts.

8:00AM: Roy leaves for his service. I clear breakfast bowls, leaving James’ half-eaten bowl of shredded wheat and sippy cup of water in case he decides to finish.

8:02: I glance at James, who is still wearing what he had on yesterday. Red solid shirt, khaki pants. That’s fine for church—nobody saw him yesterday who would remember. How sad is it that I’ve compromised my motherhood standards this much already? Don’t overanalyze that. There isn’t time.

8:03: Owen and I head upstairs to get dressed. I pull out an outfit for him that I can clearly picture James in from three years ago. How is my baby so big already? He attempts to crawl off the changing table multiple times despite me securing him snugly with the safety strap.

8:05: Owen is ready to go. I bring him into my room and cast a weary glance at the corner where a few of my dress clothes are laid out. I wore that to church on Thursday. Better not. What about this top and khakis? Ehhh—big Sunday service, probably should go dressier. What dress can I wear that’s not too summery but I can nurse in? … … … This is not going well. Meanwhile, Owen has pulled himself up at the door and is pounding on it, wailing to be freed. Can’t do that since he will promptly attempt to descend the wooden staircase.

8:10: After pawing through my drawers and closet I decide on black slacks, black cami, and filmy tan cardigan-esque cover. It ties funny in front, which is why I’ve never worn it before. But my wardrobe looks boring and wearing something “new” trumps things that fit perfectly.

8:12: I’m dressed and the party moves to the bathroom, where I again shut the door on Owen’s aspirations of liberation. He eagerly crawls to the tub, where he bounces by the faucet, hoping that I will run water for a bath. No such luck today honey bun. We’ve got fifteen minutes before we have to be out the door. Insert wailing and gnashing of teeth. Top teeth anyway.

8:17: My teeth are brushed and I’ve pulled my unwashed hair into some type of serviceable bun. When am I going to actually wash this mop? It’s always the thing to go. I could do it more often if I wanted…the kids make a convenient excuse though. Owen continues to protest his lack of say in all matters.

8:18: I head downstairs to slap a little powder on my face and gather the various and sundry items required for a Sunday morning. Diapers, wipes, wallet, keys, phone, food for Owen since he didn’t want breakfast, nursing cover, jackets…do I need to pack jackets? Do I have any music I need to bring? Am I playing flute at all?

8:22: “James, it’s time to head downstairs so we can leave for church!”

“Why?”

Inward sigh.

“Because we have church this morning Honey. Please come down right now!”

“George doesn’t WANT to go to church. He wants to stay in our compartment.”

Inward sigh.

“James, please come downstairs right now. We need to get your shoes on.”

<long silence>

Slightly less-inward sigh.

“James, do you need a time out?”

“NOOOO!”

“Please listen RIGHT NOW.”

<feet clomping downstairs>

“James, please come over HERE so I can put your shoes on. Here comes the ‘I roll away and make it difficult’ dance. You need to sit down. No, don’t roll over onto your stomach. It’s not that funny. Why does this always happen? SIT. Owen, that’s super dirty. Don’t chew on the toilet. He’s totally going to get E Coli. James, just because I needed to pull Owen out of the bathroom doesn’t mean you get to run away.”

8:28: “All right! All boys are dressed, shod, and ready to go. Let’s head out to the car!”

James, “I’m hungry Mommy!”

I knew it.

“You have cereal on the table from breakfast.”

“But I’m THIRSTY!”

“You have water on the table too. Grab a quick drink on the way out.”

“But I need to EAT! I need a SNACK!”

I’m going to be late. I’m going to be so late. Why do I always tell my boss that it’s ‘no problem’ when he gives the starting rehearsal time? It’s never not a problem.

<Owen is trying to launch himself out of my arms to go eat something else poisonous.>

“I will pack you a banana for the car. Sound OK?”

8:30: Boys are loaded and buckled into car seats. James is happily mashing on a banana and talking to George. Owen is playing with the overhead canopy of his car seat. I run back into the kitchen to rescue my sunglasses. I look around. The kitchen table is a mess, but the living room is surprisingly clean. I take a deep breath and hear only my exhale. It’s quiet, peaceful. Where are my sunglasses? Ah yes, in the basket by the front door. The door is locked. All bags are in the car. Wow…it’s so quiet—I could get so much done right now if I didn’t have to leave. Next time I’m going to START with the boys in the car seats.

8:32AM: We pull out of the driveway. James hands me a slimy banana peel and immediately starts asking for “You Are The Answer.”

Today's 1%: I'm going to fall asleep for an afternoon nap as soon as this is posted. This will pay off in ways from which all benefit.