Setting: Sunday night and two of three daughters are not home yet. It’s a wintery, icy, slushy, freezing rain kind of night. The time on the microwave reads 10:02pm.

The kids storm into the house, voices hoarse from a day of cheering, screaming, squealing and laughing at the Olympic Trials for swimming—a bus trip with their swim club.

We agreed (not in writing or even a pinkie swear) just a general, nodding in a circle that the girls would try to wake up at their usual 6:15am and get ready for school but if it was just impossible, they could sleep until I woke them at 8am provided they would be ready and at school by 9am.

Monday Morning—5am Greg’s alarm clock rings

6am—my alarm clock rings. Huh, Greg must be gone.

6:45am, youngest daughter marches into the kitchen pointing her fingers like a gun and with a scratchy morning voice clicks, “Warm milk” and walks past me. She’s dressed and carrying her pajamas to be deposited into the washing machine–a true creature of habit.

The warm milk is microwaved in a glass measuring cup for 53 seconds. This is the perfect amount of time to warm milk for the princess’s liking. Please note: not all microwaves are the same. It has taken us 6 years to perfect this.

Chloe is handed the warm milk in a cup with a lid. She takes a sip, stands up and places the cup back in the microwave and presses “1 second.” This is part of our morning ritual, a power struggle that gives her some control. She believes the 1 extra second brings her warm milk to some level of perfection I am ill-equipped to master.

We say nothing. She drinks the milk.

Note to self: call the school and tell them middle and oldest daughters will be arriving at 9am, youngest will take the bus and be on time.

7:45am, middle daughter enters the kitchen, barks like a seal. I point back to her room where she retreats and I don’t see her again until later.

I walk into the oldest’s room and quietly, happily say, “Good morning Hanna. It’s 8am.” She moans. “Remember our deal. Time to get up and shower.”

Note to self: call the school and tell them middle daughter is staying home with a seal bark, oldest will be there at 9am, youngest taking the bus and will be on time.

Chloe walks past carrying her toothbrush, paste and a face cloth to smear it all around when she’s done.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m brushing my teeth in this bathroom so I don’t wake Hanna up like she does for me when she wakes up early to go swimming.”

That might be the first selfless thing I’ve seen her do and it makes me smile. I forget about the “1 second” milk and sigh.

Note to self: clean powder room mirror, sink, tap and counter top after Chloe “brushes” her teeth in there.

The bus will be here at 8am.

I am in my work-out clothes planning to hop on the treadmill after Chloe gets on the bus while Hanna is getting ready and Ellie is resting.

Approach Hanna’s room for the second time. She’s fallen back to sleep.
“Hanna, remember our deal. You need to get up and get ready for school.” (I knew I should have insisted on a pinkie swear)

“Where’s Ellie?”

“She’s gone back to bed.”

“That’s not fair! Why is she allowed to go back to bed?”

“She barked like a seal.” (I probably shouldn’t have made it sound like a talent contest)

“Well so can I!” (Oldest attempts to bark like what she thinks a seal might sound like. It’s more of a deflated bike horn) Nice try.

“Hanna, I’m taking Chloe outside to wait for the bus then I’m getting on the treadmill. It’s time to get up and get ready.”

Chloe’s hair is brushed and she’s dressed to march outside.

I slide her snow pants into the back part of her backpack the way she likes and hide in the garage so the bus filled with kids won’t see me in my eclectic treadmill-chic wardrobe.

Chloe asks me to hand her the small, red umbrella so she can test if the rain we can see while standing in the garage is in fact really happening if she takes a step outside.

The bus will be here any second.

Did I call the school?

Is Hanna out of bed?

Don’t forget Ellie is in her bed and drive to the grocery store or leave town.

Chloe does a dance with a doll’s umbrella with several bent and/or broken spokes around the ice chunks on the driveway. I love that she doesn’t mind looking silly in front of an audience and wish I had more of that.

I open the door into the house and call in to be sure Hanna is stirring.

Chloe’s snow pants fall from her backpack into a puddle. I come onto the driveway (shorts, tank-top, headband, flawless bun) to help.

I’m cold. I look hilarious. The bus is late but I think I can hear it.

I try to retreat back into the garage, Chloe hands me her backpack and red, doll’s umbrella.

“I have to go pee!” She abandons me and runs inside.

8:10am, Ellie barks, Hanna snores, Chloe is in the bathroom.

I wave goodbye to the bus with my shorts and broken, miniature, red umbrella.

Note to self: Call the school and tell them we’ll try again another day.

Happy Monday!