The Morning Routine. Or not.

April 18, 2005 | Category: Mother to the First Power

Because CD had an early meeting, I took Bear to preschool today. Because I haven't done the morning routine with Bear regularly in over six months when I do have to get him up and to school, we run into all kinds of pitfalls.

1. The Battle Of the Trophy.

Bear won a trophy at his Tae Kwan Do competition on Friday Night and he wanted to take it to school. It's his first-ever trophy, it's as tall as he is, and even though they gave one to every competitor under a certain age you can bet that Bear thinks that HIS trophy is unique in all the world. I had to physically restrain my little prince from sneaking it off the shelf about eleventy million times.

2. The Fashion Disaster.

Bear has grown out of all his clothes.

Normally, I would have gone to my favorite bi-annual swap meet by now and stocked up. This is the first one I have missed since he was born. The consequence was a tearful choice.

There was an old (you know, from last winter) pair of pants that now stop at his shins ("My favorite!") and cut off blood circulation to his waist when snapped up. Or the new "Church" pants that haven't been hemmed up yet and had to be rolled up so many times that it looked like his ankles were wearing flotation devices.

We went with the flotation slacks. With a green t-shirt and grey socks. And sandals (because his sneakers are still wet from "washing the car" yesterday). To sum up: He was dressed in the very latest refugee attire.

3. Breakfast of Champions.

Bear wanted nothing to do with food. Sat down and began crying at the thought of Cheerio's. Told me that Cheerio's would make him vomit. Told me Cheerio's would poison him and turn him into a Transformer. A BAD Transformer.

4. Cleanliness was next to Impossible.

Bear brushed his teeth well enough but then refused to wash his face North of his nose. We wrestled in the bathroom for several long minutes and I am not ashamed to admit - ALL that boy's parts were CLEAN when we emerged.

However, we were both wet. So I found another clashing t-shirt.

5. Pack Rat.

Bear then insisted on packing for the 20 minute drive. He gathered up books. He grabbed about 15 thousand toys and began loading them into his arms. I drew the line at one. He drew the line at four. We settled on two.

6. He'll have the half-caf soy latte with cinnamon.

I bought him a "Purpleberry" muffin at the Dunkie's Drive-Thru (For those of you from somewhere west or south of Boston - that's Dunkin Donuts). And an iced coffee for me. About 5 minutes later, a choking Bear asked me to pass him his juice. Juice? Oh, crap. Yes, I sent my child to school with a stomach full of sugar, fruit, and carbs - all laced with caffeine.

We talked about what it was like when I grew up. He was fascinated to hear that his Nana would get up and make his "Duncle" and I breakfast - every.single.morning. AND pack lunch for us. He began listing all kinds of food to see if his Nana had made that: bacon, sausage, pancakes, fruit juices. All while eating a commercially made muffin.

7. Disco Lives!

When we finally pulled up at his school, he and I were singing "I will survive" by Gloria Gaynor (Bear knows all the words) at the top of our lungs.

I pushed the remote on the side door and the parent helping unload the kids this morning jumped back as a cacophany of noise and stuff came spilling out - music, muffin parts, toys, napkins. My son was covered in crumbs and grinning.

To sum up; my son arrived at school this morning in the disguise of a caffienated, sugar-high preschooler dressed like a refugee and singing disco.

8. Be Very Nice to the Crazy Lady.

The parent stuck her head in back the van and I turned down the music with a snap of my wrist.

"Your husband out of town again?" she asked.

"No, just an early meeting. He'll be driving Bear the rest of the week," I replied.

She just BARELY stopped herself from saying "Good." I could see it in her eyes.

I pulled away with a squeal of tires and an uncontrollable laugh. And turned Gloria back on. Loud.

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