Mar 20, 2017 3 min read

The alarm goes off every day at six. I snooze it one time, and then crawl out of bed. On school days, I throw on clothes, wake the kids for school and head to the coffee pot. As soon as it is brewing, I go wash my face and run a brush through my hair.

After the first sip of coffee hits my belly, I start making breakfast of some type. I yell again for the kids. While waiting for them to appear, I either scoop litter boxes, sweep the floor or load the dishwasher. Sometimes all three.

When there is about 20 minutes left before the bus pulls in, I yell, “last call” up the stairs. That is for my daughter’s benefit, as my son typically arrives downstairs shortly after I begin cooking breakfast. Eventually, she also appears and they make it to the bus in just enough time to catch it.

That doesn’t sound like much of a plan, but compared to this morning, it is a brilliant scheme.

Apparently, today I shut the alarm completely off instead of snoozing it. When I finally awoke, it was becoming light outside. That immediately told me that I had overslept. I glanced at the clock and saw that we had approximately 12 minutes until the bus was expected.

I threw the covers back and leapt out of bed. I ran into the boy’s room and flipped on the light. He groaned and rolled over, pulling the covers over his head. I pulled them back down and encouraged him to get moving.

Next I went to my daughter’s room. She is hard to wake up on a good day, so I knew there might be a battle. I called her name and she stirred. I said it again, with more urgency, but she made no reply. I raised my voice a little more and she opened one eye.

“Twelve minutes,” I said, loudly. “The bus will be here in 12 minutes. You must get out of bed!”

I headed down the stairs to get their things together, pausing along the way to wake my son one more time. Why didn’t they feel the need to move any quicker than a normal day?

Struggling to stay calm when I felt anything but, I hollered up the stairs. My son’s clomping was soon heard, telling me that he was moving and would likely make it to the bus on time.

Still nothing from my daughter’s room.

To be fair, she is often quiet up there while doing her hair, but somehow I had to impress upon her that there was no time for that today. One final yell and she grouched her way downstairs to the bathroom.

“Brush your teeth. Comb your hair. Don’t forget deodorant,” I called over my shoulder as I perched in the window, watching for the telltale beacon that flashes on top of the bus. As it made its way around the bend in the road, I shoved Pop Tarts into their hands and pushed them out the door.

“Have a great day,” I tossed after their departing backs. They both looked back at me and rolled their eyes as they were swallowed up by the bus.

I went inside as they pulled away, feeling as if I had been up for 12 hours instead of mere minutes. I can only imagine that they felt the same.