  Back in September when Aidan started pre-school, the abundant advice (not so much advice as admonishment) given by everyone from neighbors to even my mom was that the mornings were going to turn into a crazed effort to get out of the door and into the car. One neighbor said every morning inevitably ends up seeing tears by her daughter, and often by her. I took the bus when I was little, so I think the pressure cooker waited until we saw Mrs. White (the White farm was next to our land, and we were accordingly Mrs. White's first pick-up) turn her bus lights on, at which point mad throwing on of shoes and stuffing of bags ensued.
I love mornings. I hate waking up, I'm a chronic sleeper-in, but once I'm awake, I love to move slowly and greet the day detail by foggy detail. The perfect thing, then, to ruin mornings for me is to rush. Through school and college, and even much of my early career, I adapted to this aspect of my life well by taking getting ready out of the schedule. As long as I don't have to shower, and make-up is no more than a brush of mascara on each upper eye-lid, I could sleep as late as possible, and wake up just in time to dress and eat. I was convinced I could also adapt my children to my desires for rush-less mornings. I schemed and planned with this hope in mind.
And to a large extent, I succeeded, but as you'll see, this system requires constant revision. The kids wake up and watch Sesame Street, while I sleep in. Elmo's World starts at a quarter to 8 and inevitably wakes me if a 1-year-old vs. 3-year-old squabble hasn't already erupted. Aidan has to eat before the end of Sesame Street in order to have enough time to dress the two and get out the door by 8:15, and to school at 8:30.
Today, we got to school at 9, so you can guess what kind of morning we had. When we walked into his school, he melted away into the morning's last of a long chain of emotional break-downs. As I held his collapsed body by the hand and sternly said to stand up another mom said, "so you're having one of those days, too? " I asked if it was the 30 minutes late or the child on the floor that gave her that impression. She shared that this morning her son had peed his pants in front of her to attract her attention that was otherwise diverted to the phone for that minute. I let go of Aidan's arm and laughed. I said, "you win. That sucks. Peeing the pants is an automatic 15-minute deduction.
I can't believe you're already here. " Her baby in the arm-slung carseat looked heavy so she took her honor and left. This morning Aidan had emotional issues with every single step of getting ready: at taking off the shirt he slept in, at putting on the new shirt, at putting on the pants, and then, of course, the old stand-by's socks and shoes.
For the first few, I doled out punishments, and then I just started throwing clothes onto him as all the while, Ellie clung to my leg like a horny dog chanting mamamamama. Going out to the car, he stepped into a puddle, and guess what! Emotional disaster! So by the time I arrived at his school and he laid on the floor feeling whatever imagined pressure walking through the door must impart, I was less than sympathetic. Do I sound crass? Welcome to Friday Syndrome. This is kind of like the way your bladder knows when you're close to home on a long road trip.
All week long, I pour myself out. I don't hold anything back, it goes primarily to the two kids, but some goes to my husband and family, and a tiny bit goes to my writing. Then, by Friday, I'm all poured out. I'm empty. I dig deep to still smile at Mr. Wind's latest adventures as told by my son, and I have to dig even deeper to ask in the chipperest voice: "do you want your sandwich to be triangles or rectangles today? " From some unknown source of energy, I find strength to open my arms and say, "Of course I'd love to hold you on my lap while I go potty, sweetie! " Maybe I'm shortchanging stay-at-home or work-at-home dads here, but I don't think any man has ever dug this deep into his reservoir.
If a man scratches this surface, you get Angry Man-styled break-downs. You get serious wacked out aberrations from sanity. But for a mom? You get an extra hour of Nickelodian after school, because it's a slight drop in values and dad's bus will get home soon. Speaking of dad, from now on, he'll be waking up in time to dress Aidan before leaving to catch the bus. 
