On weekdays, my alarm is set for 5:15 AM. If you’re thinking that’s absurdly early, you’re in good company. But my motives are understandable, especially to parents: peace, quiet, and self-preservation.
Most days, my house is a symphony of pure, unadulterated chaos: running feet, squeals, toy avalanches, phone pings, two TVs competing for dominance, and the unmistakable sound of breaking glass—invariably followed by Google neutrally announcing, “Glass broken in the kitchen.” All of it punctuated by a relentless, chorus-like shout: “MOM!”
People often ask, “The kids are in school for six hours—don’t you get your peace then?”
In short: no.
Decompressing from the morning drop-off onslaught requires a period of strict sensory deprivation. I usually sit in my parked car in complete silence—no phone, no music, no movement. In the mornings and evenings, my mind runs a marathon at a sprint: Who needs breakfast? Who has library today? Where is the library book? Is it a theme day? Do I even own Halloween socks?! Where did I put the stuff for Ethan’s party? Did Cole try on those swim jammers? What’s for dinner? Shoot, I need milk—I’ll grab it between dry cleaning and the Scout store for Ethan’s uniform. Do we have religion this week? Is Cub Scouts tonight? When am I Secret Reader? Wait—that endo appointment is TOMORROW?!"
My brain has to quiet down before my body can follow. That is why I crave the pre-dawn silence: to cross items off a list uninterrupted, completing a single task from start to finish.
So when two of my three children rose early today, stealing my quiet hour, my reaction mirrored the meltdowns they would inevitably have later.
When my routine breaks, my composure wobbles. Instead of neatly unloading the dishwasher, I began frantically clearing items in order of immediate survival: juice cups, plates, forks. I closed the door on the rest to deal with later, shifting focus to Theo and Ethan’s breakfast—a meal they genuinely believe is crafted by a magical, mind-reading fairy and served piping hot the second they rub the sleep from their eyes.
I ripped open a package of waffles and tossed four into the oven, accidentally air-frying them into extra-crispy squares instead of toasting them. No matter; Ethan likes a crunch. I doused them in syrup and carried them to the living room, where the boys sat hypnotized by Handyman Hal crafting things I am constantly asked—and utterly fail—to replicate.
“Mommy, where are my French toast sticks?!” Theo cried.
“You asked for waffles the last two days!” I insisted. “They’re good, try them!”
“I don't want waffles, I want French toast sticks! I do, I do!” He pouted, crossing his arms and turning his back on the plate.
Honesty check? I wanted to tell him precisely where he could put those waffles. I wanted to remind him that he should be asleep, that I should be sipping hot coffee and quietly stacking freshly steamed plates from the bottom rack, and that this is a residence, not a diner. There is no magic fairy—only a manic, unraveling mother.
Instead, I took a breath, retrieved the plate, and stashed it in the microwave for Cole, who would happily eat his waffles upon waking. I warmed up the frozen French toast sticks.
When I returned, Theo was drinking his juice and proudly announced he’d taken his thyroid medicine like a big boy. I praised him, handed over the plate, and turned toward the kitchen.
I didn't even cross the threshold before it hit: “MOM!” Ethan this time.
“Yes, my dear?” I asked, holding tight to my composure.
“Can you print an aircraft carrier for me to trace?”
“Sure, but eat your waffles while it prints.”
I turned to go.
“MOM!” Theo. I spun on my heel.
“Yes, Theo?” My smile was now practically stapled to my face.
“More juice?”
“How do we ask?”
“May I please have more juice, please, munchkin?”
How do you say no to that? I took the dangling cup. “Yes, you may.”
I jogged to the kitchen, topped it off, and threw in some kid’s Emergen-C. With Halloween approaching and my husband traveling soon, illness is not an option.
“Your juice, sir.”
“Thank you, Mommy.”
“E, you good?” I asked, trying to head off the next demand.
“Did you print my aircraft carrier?”
“On it.” I glanced at his plate—untouched. “One bite first.”
He popped a single square into his mouth, smiling while chewing. “Is it printing?”
“Not yet. Eat more.”
I turned back to the kitchen, only for Theo to pipe up: “Mommy, is it filled to the top?”
“Yes!” I didn't even look back.
At my laptop, I searched aircraft carrier tracing for kids. Ethan drifted into the kitchen, leaned over, and poked my screen with a syrupy finger to select a picture, leaving a sticky smudge on my decidedly non-touchscreen monitor.
“Are you sure?” I pressed. “This one’s really detailed. Want an easier one?”
“No, I want this one,” he insisted, planting another sticky fingerprint on the display.
I sent it to the printer, wiped my screen with my sweatshirt sleeve, and checked the clock.
Time was evaporating. I put chicken nuggets into the air fryer and grabbed thermoses from the dishwasher. Before checking the Red Ribbon Week flyers, I heard my name called from the laundry room. I closed my eyes, prayed for patience, and scanned the school updates.
Ethan: wear bright colors. Theo: healthy snack day.
Same school district, same week supporting the same cause, entirely different themes. Last year’s Spirit Week nearly killed me with its daily mismatched dress codes. At least today only required one special outfit. Yesterday, operating under the blissful delusion that their themes matched, I sent Theo to school in a Spider-Man cape for "Superhero Day"—only to discover it was actually "Halloween Sock Day" at his school. You live and you learn.
I bounded up the stairs, pulled up Ethan’s sheets, scooped up laundry, and grabbed an outfit that vaguely resembled a bright color palette.
Downstairs, a cry rang out: “This darn picture is stupid!”
Right on cue.
I descended the stairs two at a time and rounded the corner. “Tough?”
“Too tough!” Ethan cried, dropping his pencil. “I can’t do it!”
“You can trace, buddy,” I soothed, kneeling to wipe his tears. “This one just has too many details. Want to try a simpler one?”
“No. I want a battleship instead.”
Pivot.
“Let me look, but first, let’s get dressed so we’re ready for the bus. Deal?”
“Fine.”
While Ethan changed, Theo chimed in: “Mommy! Can you make me a picture like Ethan’s?”
“Two battleships, got it. Get dressed first.”
Back up the stairs I went to grab Theo’s clothes, make his bed, and flip off his dinosaur nightlight.
Before I reached the bottom step: “MOM!”
For the love of God.
“Guys, we have to get ready. Cole has extra help this morning—”
Shoot. Cole. I forgot to wake him up early.
I dropped Theo’s clothes on the couch and flew back upstairs into Cole’s room, singing him awake to keep my own fraying nerves from scaring him:
“Good morning, good morning, my son, my number one! I’m picking out clothes to cover your bum… let’s get going but not before dawn, unlike your brothers who woke early and now I’ve gone… CRAZY!”
He laughed. “Waffles for breakfast?” I checked. He nodded.
Back downstairs, Ethan caught me peeking around the corner. Thankfully, he was dressed.
“Is it printed yet?” he whined.
“One minute!” I sang, slightly sharp.
In the kitchen, Cole and Ethan walked in together. Ethan was tugging at his collar; Cole was carrying his clothes.
“Ethan, is it the tag? Cole, get dressed please—we have to leave early today.”
“I’ll get dressed in a minute, I’m hungry,” Cole said.
I pulled Ethan over to the counter, grabbed the kitchen shears, and snipped the offending tag off his shirt. “Better?”
“No, I don’t like this shirt.” He pulled his arms out of the top he’d comfortably worn twice last week.
“Okay... but today is Bright Color Day. Go pick another bright one!”
“MOM!” Theo rejoined the fray. “I need more juice! The last one wasn’t full!”
“I can’t fill it to the brim, bud, it leaks.” I reached into the fridge for the pitcher. Empty. It was sitting on the counter.
“Can I have juice too?” Cole asked quietly. “And my waffles?”
I poured the remaining mix, reheated Cole’s breakfast, and turned around just as Ethan re-entered wearing a stained, neon-yellow shirt covered in old Sharpie scribbles.
“Look, Mom, bright!” he beamed. “Is my battleship ready?”
I hit print on the first battleship I saw on Google and sent him to grab it.
What was I doing again? What time is it? 7:15 AM.
“Ethan, teeth and shoes! The bus will be here in fifteen minutes!”
“Did you print mine?” Theo yelled.
I printed a second copy. “Yes, go get it!”
Where was I, Staples?! I needed to recenter.
Nuggets! I opened the air fryer, tipped the dried-out chicken nuggets into thermoses, and grabbed the lunchboxes from the fridge—pre-packed the night before to make my mornings 'so much easier.' Lol. Lmao, even
Water bottles. I reopened the dishwasher, retrieved the caps and straws, filled the bottles with ice water, and tried to carry three lunchboxes and three water bottles in one trip.
On my way to the dining room, I nearly tripped over the dog. “Sorry, Truman,” I muttered to his backside, on his way to take his post-wake-up nap. “I want to come back as you in my next life.”
Packing Cole’s bag—already bursting with notebooks, workbooks, and a recorder—was a masterclass in geometry. I unpacked and repacked the entire bag just to force the zipper shut, only to realize: I forgot the snacks.
“Mother f—”
“MOM!” two voices shouted in unison.
I felt like I was being punked. I half-expected Ashton Kutcher to crawl out from under the dining table. My nervous system was redlining. I wanted to call back: WHAT COULD YOU POSSIBLY NEED?! I HAVE GIVEN YOU LIFE, FOOD, SHELTER! WHAT IS LEFT?!
My chest tightened—the familiar warning sign of anxiety.
I didn’t get sober to act like "Hurricane Helga"—the old me who operated without inhibitions, firing off harsh words without caring who got hurt.
I took a deep breath. Then another. I walked slowly toward the living room.
“Guys…” I began softly.
“Mom, look! Look at my battleship!” Ethan beamed, holding up a neatly traced, brightly colored ship.
“Mom! Look!” Theo held up a half-colored sheet, his marker having dried out mid-stroke. “Will you color with me, please?” His big, wide eyes looked up at me.
I had been desperate to escape to my laptop to vent about this chaos—this loud, overwhelming morning with kids who live entirely in the present. But instead, I excused myself to pour my first cup of coffee, grabbed a few snacks for the bags, and sat down at their little table to color before the bus arrived.
If I'm being completely honest, I struggle with control. I like things done a certain way at a certain time—from how the dishwasher is loaded to how shoes are aligned on the entry rug. I used to call myself "detail-oriented," claiming I kept things orderly so no one tripped or tracked in dirt. But the truth is simple: I’m a recovering control freak with OCD tendencies.
Recognizing that trait allows me to manage it. I don't use it as an excuse anymore, nor do I blame others. It used to be so easy to say, “I’m stressed because you didn’t do X, Y, or Z!”
Now, I try to use actual tools: Take a breath. Recognize the trigger. Pivot.
Helga lived for spiraling, spite, and self-pity. Hailey would rather live in the solution. Life is too short to construct your own misery; I’d rather choose peace.
So instead of stressing over an unloaded dishwasher, I chose to be grateful for ten minutes of coloring. The bus came. Cole got to Extra Help on time. Everyone had lunch and a healthy snack.
There is enough time in the day for what truly matters. So if you get the chance today, sit on the floor and play or color. Have patience with your day, with your kids, and most importantly, with yourself.
