peevish mama

It is 8:25 a.m. and Supergirl has to be at preschool at 9:00.  I’ve managed to slop some Rice Krispies into a bowl for her, but Saint James and Devil Baby are still asleep.  Every once in a while my children do this – sleep-in.  Of course they would never do this on a morning after a night involving tequila.  They would only do this after a random Wednesday night spent sipping Lotus bedtime tea and organizing my digital photos (yes, I do say that with a bit of pride due to the fact that prior to last Christmas, I was still shuffling into National Photo with my little rolls of film clutched in my clammy technology-averse fingers).   

I should be getting dressed, gently waking the sleepy heads, getting them fed and dressed and generally embarking on the morning routine which requires drawing on my inner peppy high-school cheerleader, crabby drill sergeant and Australian Shepherd – part Julie Macoy/ part that guy who used to yell at Gomer Pyle all the time.  It takes a superhuman effort to get everyone out the door in the morning. Although there are certain things that can be skipped (making the beds, putting the breakfast stuff away, nature’s calling – ahem, incidentally, you’d never catch Dr. Dash skipping this step), other things just can’t be, like breakfast, getting the crusties out of their eyes and, most importantly, fixing Saint James’ crazy hair.  

Supergirl has a mercifully silky little pageboy which requires absolutely no fussing – she gets out of the tub, it’s perfect – goes to bed, it’s perfect – gets out of bed, it’s perfect.  Sometimes I catch her trying to mess it up to get a little attention, but it still falls into a perfect little sweep, framing her perfect little face.  Saint James’ hair, on the other hand, is stupendous in its ability to defy gravity.  His pouf of hair is one of his defining characteristics.  Mind you, it’s a pouf only after I’ve tamed it.  Before the requisite dunking in the morning, his hair can look like an enormous lumpy pillow, the tail of a drunken peacock, or Maddox Jolie’s after a twenty hour flight to Namibia to pick up another sibling.  Horns, shark fins, pylons, eggrolls, you name it, his hair goes there.

And I simply cannot send Saint James to school looking like I don’t give a hoot.  It’s not cute messy.  It’s like your-mother-eats-chips-and-smokes-cigarettes-in-bed-all-day-messy – snot on your face messy – dirt under your nails messy.  (Sigh.)  Actually he does have dirt under his nails – all three of my children do.  For some reason, and I can’t quite figure out why, my children’s nails have been growing at an alarming rate lately.  I clip them and clean them and then poof, I hand them some string cheese and those dirty moon slivers are back.  What am I raising baby mechanics here?  I need to get their manis and pedis on a schedule, because I feel like I’m clipping nails every damn day.   

I think I hear Devil Baby whacking Elmo’s plastic eyes against the wall.  

Off to the races.