Moms vs. Dads: Morning Addition

We women sure have come a long way since we got the vote. We now have careers of our own and get to work outside the home.

But that doesn’t mean things are exactly equal. Allow me to demonstrate with exhibit A. How horrifyingly different my mornings tend to be from my husband’s.

My Morning

Alarm goes off. Hit snooze. Twice.

Get out of bed. Get coffee. Take shower.

Wake up the kids by nuzzling their sweet little necks with tender little kisses.

Dry hair. Apply product. Put face on.

Wake the kids. Again.

#1 is already out of bed and fully dressed. He is ready to start his day in 24.3 seconds. Every damn morning. I love him. He is my favorite.

I microwave a pancake popsicle.

Using a much deeper, scarier, manlier voice, I threaten the children. With a knife. They start to stir.

I throw another pancake popsicle in the microwave.

#3 emerges but she’s not happy. There’s no telling why. Perhaps the sun is too shiny. Or there was a pea under her mattress. Or she realizes she is six and this is as good as it gets.

#2 is just sitting there. Every time I tell her to get dressed she yells, “I am”. The words leak so effortlessly from her body. As soon as she registers my voice she responds with an “I am”. She’s like Pavlov’s dog.

I throw another pancake popsicle in the microwave.

I now realize that #4 has yet to be seen. I go and pull his limp body out of bed as he tells me he doesn’t want to go to school because his stomach hurts.

I’m sure said stomach ache has nothing to do with the 4th pancake popsicle I throw into the microwave.

Everyone is now out of bed and breakfast is on the table.

I glance at the clock and have exactly fourteen minutes to get everyone out of this God forsaken house.

#3 is crying. She can’t find her shirt. It’s on the dining room table.

I tell everyone to pack their lunches in their bags.

This is when #1 peeks inside his lunch box and declares he doesn’t care for the spread I have provided him. He begins to rethink his snack choices. With more thought than I have ever seen him put into anything he has ever done.

#3 is crying. She can’t find her shorts. They’re on the dining room table.

#4 now feels the need to look inside his lunch box and decides his snacks are also subpar.

#2, who hasn’t moved and is shirtless, is now in hysterics because suddenly she remembers she didn’t finish a math problem. Which totally makes sense because I only asked her twelve times the night before if everything was completed.

I suggest everyone now take this opportunity to place their freaking lunches in their freaking backpacks before they forget them and freaking starve to death.

#3 is crying. She can’t find her socks. They’re on the dining room table.

Everyone’s lunches are now in their bags. And three out of the four are eating their gourmet breakfasts.

Breakfast. Is. Served.
Breakfast. Is. Served.

After googling “addition algorithm”, #2’s homework is now complete. But now she can’t find her hairbrush.

#3 is crying. She can’t find her shoes. I tell her to take one guess as to where they might be. She guesses on the back porch. She is wrong.

We find the lost hairbrush. I’m too dignified to go into details. I’ll order a new one off Amazon Prime Now and it will be delivered before we all walk back through that door. Like it never happened.

#2 is now complaining because her pancake popsicle is cold. I explain to her that we all make choices in life and hers are of the poor variety. She yells, “I am!” at me.

I finally skedaddle the little cherubs right out that front door. All kisses and I love yous.

#1 runs back inside because he’s cold and needs a sweatshirt. The other three follow suit. It’s sixty-eight degrees out.

I finally get in the car and I can breathe for the first time since I woke.

It isn’t until I am pulling into work that I realize I forgot my lunch.

Beau’s Morning

Wake up. Shower. Leave for work.

Bless. His. Freaking. Heart.

Check me out on WGN Morning News!

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