How many times do I have to repeat myself?

1440.

That’s at least the number of times I have said (yelled, called, screamed, hollered) “wake up” this school year. Not even counting weekends.

It’s the minimum number of times I have answered the question “huh?” with “get down here, eat breakfast – don’t forget your milk, and get out of here for school.”

It is the approximate combined total number of times that I have asked for lunchboxes that were under the bed, on the couch, by the front door, in the car – everywhere but in the kitchen and reminded folks to leave their lunchbox in the kitchen when they get home.

It is the least possible summation of times that I have said “get your stuff ready for tomorrow” and “didn’t you get your stuff ready last night?”

It is pretty close to the number of times I have signed “I gotta turn this in today or I won’t get to…” forms at 7 am, pulled out wrinkled dollars from the bottom of my purse for “I forgot to tell you I don’t have any lunch money” lunches, and scribbled checks for “oh, yeah this is due today” permission slips and registrations.

It is the number of times someone has said “have you seen my…” or “I can’t find my…” at 6, 7, and 8 am.

It is way below the number of times I have said “put up your phones” and “go to bed” repeatedly within a two-hour time span.

It is June. Four kids, 180 days of school (well, almost, but who’s counting). And if you’ve done the math and still don’t get to this number – hit “x 2” on our calculator because it’s not sufficient to say things once to each child.  I feel like a broken record. Except with a broken record, it’s the exact same thing every time. With a repetitive, worn-out mom, there is variability in volume, the gritting of teeth, the caffeination level and the litany of “how many times do I have to say…?”

Apparently that number is somewhere around 1440.

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It's Always the Mother's Fault

It's the mother's fault.

This is pretty much the message I’ve received from my own mother.  I always thought she was being so dramatic and you know, oh so Asian, to take on this load of mother guilt whenever something didn’t go quite right.  Whether my father’s cold was lasting longer than expected or my knitted scarf looked awful or my brother hadn’t called her in a whole two days, she accepted that it was somehow her doing.

Now, I’m starting to get it.  It is the mother’s fault.

Every morning, I rustle my kids awake.  5:45, 6:30, 7:00 a.m.  It’s like the schedule at Penn Station.  And on schedule, I go back up stairs and call them to wake up again.  And then I remind them to “hurry up – you do have somewhere to be this morning!”  After enough time to have brushed every single tooth one-by-one (which I doubt they did) and try on every piece of clothing in their closet (which I believe they do) they saunter downstairs to the breakfast table, sans socks.  On a good morning, we get through breakfast, including a glass of milk, and they go back for some socks.  On a great morning, they comb and brush their hair.  On an absolutely terrific morning, they know where their coats and backpacks and homework from last night and library books and shoes are, somewhere near the front door.

We rarely have an absolutely terrific morning.

One not so absolutely terrific morning, after the sixth “it’s raining, no you cannot wear your pink suede boots” (yes, that’s my child; yes, I helped her pick them out), a tear-filled search for rain boots and scampering off to the bus stop, I realized – this madness in the morning is my fault.

Although in my head I get the concept of checking the backpacks at night, laying out their clothes for the next day, and hanging the coats on the coatrack right by the door, by the end of the day, as we go through the bed routine, I’m too exhausted to think of the next morning.  So I don’t insist that they pick out their next day’s outfit, mindful that they have P.E. or art.  I don’t always make sure the lunchbox has been left on the counter, to be washed and dried, ready to fill with lunch in the morning.  And I don’t always check the weather to know to look for the rainboots the night before.  I intend to sign the homework assignment sheet and fill out the permission slip, but it gets mixed in the ple of other to-do’s.

And then, on schedule, our morning routine begins.  5:45, 6:30, 7:00 a.m.  So who’s fault is that?

Every morning...

Every morning I rustle my children out of bed and into the bathroom.
Every morning, someone won't get out the bed.
Every morning, someone runs back upstairs for a pair of socks or the library book that's due today.
Every morning, I scribble my signature on a progress report or field trip permission slip.
Every morning, someone ends up crying over something.
Every morning, I yell "hurry up!"
Every morning, someone is wearing someone else's shirt/hair barrette/socks.
Every morning, someone has forgotten to finish their homework.
Every morning, I rush around the kitchen to pack up a sandwich and a fruit and a juice and a snack.
Every morning, someone can't find their shoes.
Every morning, someone grabs breakfast as they run out the door, with their jacket thrown over their shoulder and a hairbrush shoved in their pocket.
Every morning, we rush rush rush to the bus stop.

Every single morning, I need prayer.

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