Well-oiled machine

It’s morning. Again.

It’s my own damn fault. I went to bed at stupid o’clock.

I have dim recollection of an alarm going off.

Snooze.

Just a few more-

Bolt awake. It’s 7:08. We’re supposed to leave the house in twenty-two minutes. We haven’t made that time in weeks.

The damn alarm clock will play NPR until 7, and then shut off entirely. If I hadn’t been conditioned to panic around this time, I could have slept until eight. Baby E’s in bed and cranky. E acknowledges my shout of “It’s after seven!” with a familiarity that indicates she’s not surprised either.

She needs to shower – that’s twenty or thirty minutes.
Bare essentials, now.

The Boy’s asleep- needs to be dressed and fed.
Likewise Baby E.
Bedrooms need to be cleaned, we have a showing.
Breakfast? The boy’s got a banana – that’ll get him out the door, E and I will skip – again.

I get the Boy’s clothes in a heap; by some miracle we have clean socks and skivvies on the same floor as the rest of his wardrobe. Normally, I give him choices about his clothes, but today isn’t that day.

Somehow, I have baby E in my lap. I don’t remember how that happened. I sit there trying to get him dressed with words alone.

“Put them on.”

“Put them on.”

“Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on. Put them on.”

Shirt, pants, socks, now all we need is shoes. We cleaned last night, so I can find them. The Boy, sensing I’m in a rush, starts forgetting how to put on his shoes – telling me they are too tight.

E’s out of the shower and has the Girl. I don’t remember this happening, but it must have, because I get the boy in my lap and help him with his shoes.

E’s got the baby’s bottle, and I go clean up the bedroom. E remembers we never managed to get the GFI installed. I helpfully notice the condensation on the windows will leave mildew on the frames by noon. Two things we can do nothing about – and people will be evaluating our home in less than six hours.

E’s taking care of the baby. Me? I can’t find slacks. Rather, I can find slacks that have food stains on them, but the only clean pair is missing a button.

How freaking hard is it to sew on a goddamned button?

So I look for thread, needle and button. Each of them left the building years ago, but I look anyway. Eventually I settle on a safety pin, belt, and long sweater.

This is not a new idea – I did this last week, too.

Coats. The Boy doesn’t want his, but tells us all it's cold outside. E’s kitting out the baby and I’m making useless attempts at hiding the fact that I went to bed five hours ago with wet hair.

My keys have vanished. E recalls seeing the kids playing with them last night. Taking that as a sign I shouldn’t bother trying, I ask for her keys and we start out. Lock the front door, unlock the minivan-
Dammit! The Honda keys are identical, and I can’t track E’s keychain landmarks.

Unlock the civic, lock the minivan. The Boy has found a leafy stem he’d like to take with us. I’m putting something in the trunk, I don’t remember what and the Boy wants to take his time pulling all the leaves off one by one.

I opt for bad dad mode and take the stem away from him to put on his coat. He’s upset; I give him the bits back and get him strapped in.

Then I go pick up the newspaper from the driveway. It goes into the front with me, and I tuck it between the seat and the console. Right next to yesterday’s paper.

At this point, the kids are strapped in; E and I are in the front seat. It is now time for our evaluation.

Starting the car turns on the dashboard clock.

If today was a good day, it would read 7:30. It is not a good day.

A bad day is 7:45 or 7:50. E will be slightly late, I’ll be noticeably late.

A really bad day is 8:00am or later. The classic, really bad day is 8:06am. On a Wednesday NPR compounds this by subjecting you to Frank DeFord’s weekly quest for something to talk about.

Today's grade is 8:16am - a personal worst.

E will be very late, and I am trying to remember if I have a 9am meeting – because if I do, I’ll be late for it.

Defog the windows, fight the glare, drive blind until you get to the main road.

The Boy wants his music and the iPod’s stuck in my pocket. E uses hers, but we’ll have to switch at her work, because she’ll want to take hers in. Why did I put it in my pocket? Why did I take it in the house? I do this every day!

Drop E off at work, stand on it. The Boy seems to sense that this morning is not one for chatting. I keep queuing up Billy Bragg for him and he’s content.

Day care. The Boy’s doing his thing where he wants to wait until the song ends before getting out of the car. Fine. Get the Girl first, leave the keys in the car. Hold the Girl in one arm, unbuckle the boy with the other.

Out. Of. The car.

The boy consents to hold my hand while we move through the always-busy driveway. I have his backpack, because we forgot it yesterday. Baby E’s hood keeps falling down. Then we’re inside.

Downstairs is the usual bedlam. I take the boy’s jacket one-armed, and he starts kicking off his shoes. Baby E’s teacher shows up and takes the Girl, we chat about mornings and lack of sleep and the Boy’s ready.

He’s done his slippers and put away his shoes and is all set. Normally, this is not so fast. I want to hug him. I do. He gives me five and runs into class.

Back to the car. The idea of leaving my keys in the ignition has been bothering me since I left the car. I imagine the civic locking itself (as it sometimes does) and being stuck.

It didn’t, I’m not, and I back out into the always busy street. I turn on my melancholy music to fall apart to on the way into work (always a great way to start the day) and I’m in the parking lot.

I want, NEED coffee, but I still don’t know if I have a nine am meeting, and showing up late with a beverage isn’t good politics. It’s 9:08 as I’m hitting the front door.

At my desk, no one even looks up – they’ve come to expect my late arrivals, which is actually worse than a rebuke. I’m expected to be late, you see?

Closing the day out requires little in the way of imagination:

Leftovers are gone – we’ll need to cook something or order. I’ll want to order, E will want to cook. I don’t know what we have, but one way or another we’ll have eaten something by 6:30 or 7. Meantime, baby E will get some food and a bottle (with no help from me) and the Boy will want to watch his shows for the millionth time.

For the millionth time, I will let him.

Then the bed time routine will start. E will take the Girl and get started. I’ll get the boy started and sometime around 9:30 or 10:00 they will both be in their beds, and at least one of them will be asleep.

I will think of all the things that are supposed to be done today. The things that were supposed to already have been done. I’ll go the basement, make a stab at the laundry, maybe pay a bill online.

E’s upstairs watching TV.

At this point, it will be bedtime. Five hours of sleep does no one any good.

But I’m at the computer, I know I won’t be able to sleep anyway – so I fire up Company of Heroes and start pummeling the computerized Germans until they are all dead.

At which point, it will be after midnight. Thinking myself clever, I’ll hit the shower so I won’t have to in the morning.

I won’t be able to find work clothes, maybe they are upstairs. Skip it, I’ll say. It’s after 1am.

I go to bed.

-and the alarm goes off.

Snooze.

It’s morning. Again.

And again, it’s my own damn fault.