Every morning I nudge the sleeping boys curled up in my bed and tap their Star Wars underweared butts and say, "It's time to get up boys. C'mon. Let's go get dressed and get some breakfast." I pick the little one up and snuggle him in my arms as the big one runs off to the bathroom. "I'm still sweeping," the little one mutters as he flutters his long dark lashes and opens up his eyes.
I rummage through their drawers, or sometimes through the dryer, and find a clean pair of undies and a matching set of shorts and t-shirts for each child. As my sleepy boys sit on the couch and fight with their clean clothes, I rush into the kitchen and begin packing a lunch.
Nope, can't use a banana . . . he said he doesn't like those. Hmmm . . . what's left in here that the kids haven't eaten that would translate into a sack lunch? I grab the last package of fruit snacks and a juice box and some peanut butter crackers. I reach into the Cocoa Puffs box and pull out a fistful of sugary pellets and stuff them into a plastic baggie. I have making a ham and cheese sandwich down to a science. I zip up the yellow lunchbox and sigh. It's not the most nutritious meal, but at least I know he'll eat all of it.
I hear crying in the living room. The little one doesn't like the shirt I picked out for him. He insists that the Spongebob shirt belongs to his brother. "It's OK, baby. This shirt used to be his, but now it can be yours. Don't you like Spongebob?"
"Noooooooo!" He screeches, and kicks at his brother wildly with his stout little legs.
His brother, wearing a backwards t-shirt and underwear only, fights back with a bony elbow jab.
"OK, OK . . . guys . . . we're not going to fight this morning. Xavier, please turn your shirt around. You've got it on backwards, baby. Where are your shorts? You need to put them on. Don't worry about your brother right now. Orian, no kicking. If you kick your brother again, you're not going to get to play video games today. No kicking. Here's your shorts. Can you put your shorts on while momma finds you a different t-shirt? OK? I'll be right back."
I rush into the bathroom and hurriedly glance in the mirror. Glasses and messy hair. I turn around and look at my tattoo for a moment. It's almost completely healed. Good.
Back in the laundry room, I rummage through the dryer, pushing aside a lime green towel and a pair of jeans that aren't completely dry to find the monster truck shirt. I know he likes this one.
I stumble over the stuffed Hamtaro doll that has materialized by the laundry room door. "Someone needs to pick this up, please."
"I didn't leave it there. Orian was playing with it," Xavier says in the snotty tone he loves to use.
"Orian, sweetie. Come get Hamtaro . . . and I have your shirt. Why are you taking the pillows off the couch? OK, Xavier, please put the pillows back on the couch," I plead.
"But I didn't do it! That's not fair!"
I sigh and pull Orian close enough that I can slide his t-shirt on. "I can do it!" he asserts and jerks the t-shirt away and begins struggling into it. I look up to find Xavier actually putting the pillows back on the couch. For all his sassiness, he's a really good helper. He has his shirt on right now. His shorts are on. His hair is crazy, though.
"Come here, Xavier. Let's fix your hair," I call to him.
He rushes into the bathroom, knocking his brother over in the process. "Moooooooommmmmaaaa!" Orian complains. "Xavier, please apologize to your brother," I nag. Xavier complies half-heartedly, and Orian says sweetly, "That's OK." Sometimes he can be a real sweetheart. I squeeze a glob of fruity-scented gel into my hand and begin working it into Xavier's coarse hair. His head jerks and bobs with my movement. "Spiky?" I ask. "No, I don't like it like that. It makes me look like a dork." he complains.
I smooth his hair down and send him to go find his slippers. I wash my hands and stick my tongue out and examine my piercing in the mirror. Briefly I wonder what his teacher would think about it, then I remind myself that it doesn't matter what she thinks about it.
In the living room again, I find Orian spreading the DVD cases out over the floor and counting them. He's dressed, but where are his shoes? "Orian, baby, what did you do with your slippers?" I ask. I glance at the clock. 7:43. Crap. We need to be leaving soon.
Orian looks up from his project and tells me, "You have to find them." "No, you have to find them. You are responsible for your own stuff. Do you remember where they were last? Did you take them off upstairs? Are they in the shoe bucket? Outside?"
"I think he took them off upstairs," Xavier calls out as he works his slender feet into his sandals on the other side of the room.
I bound up the stairs, trying to avoid the gray Lego and dirty sock strewn on the steps. I make a mental note to come back to those later. Once upstairs, I rush into my bedroom and look around the bed. Sometimes he takes his slippers off and leaves them by the bed. Nope. Not there. I check the bathroom. Maybe he took them off in there when he was getting his bath. I notice that there's toothpaste on the mirror, but no luck on the shoes. I check the playroom. Hell, I'd never find them even if they were in there. Last room . . . the boys' bedroom. I can hear a clock ticking in my mind. Gotta hurry. I find one older slipper with no mate in the closet. I throw it back in and head downstairs.
"Orian, baby, you gotta help me. Where did you have your slippers last?" I ask.
Orian is busy stacking the DVD cases, but looks up for a moment to say in his cherubic little voice, "Maybe they're in the waundry woom." I race into the laundry room while calling out to Xavier, "Get your backpack on, sweetie. Make sure you have your homework. And don't forget your lunchbox. It's sitting on the counter in the kitchen." I give the laundry room floor a good one over and the only shoes I see are a pair of Adrian's size thirteen combat boots. OK.
"Orian, did you check the shoe bucket?" I ask, as I rummage through the contents of the wicker container by the door where we're all supposed to put the shoes we wear often. I find his GI Joe light up sneakers, but I don't have time to get socks on him. Sigh. Where could his slippers be? Why can't he just put them in the shoe bucket like he's supposed to?
I look up and see that Xavier is ready to go . . . dressed, slippers on, backpack, lunchbox . . . and he's doing kick-boxing. OK. That's fine. Whatever. Orian is dressed and still organizing the DVDs. He sees me looking at him and says, "I'm hungwee. I want milk."
"OK guys," I say as calmly as I can manage, "we're running late this morning, so we're going to just have to grab a cereal bar and eat it on the way. I'm really sorry. Orian, I'll make you some cereal and get you a glass of milk when we get back. Xavier, I promise I'll make you a really good snack as soon as you get home from school to make up for it."
"A peanut butter and jelly sandwich?" Xavier asks, excitedly.
"Sure. I'll make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. OK, let's get going."
Orian stands up and begins to stammer, "But I don't have my swippers." Oh yeah, that's right. He's barefoot. Crap. Where could his freaking slippers be?
Then it hits me. Duh. They're the same place mine are. Outside by the front door. Geez. OK.
I run into the kitchen and grab two Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal bars and begin tearing one open. "I can do it!" Orian screams. "OK, here you go. You do it. Don't use your teeth, baby. That hurts your teeth." Orian walks toward the front door while struggling with his wrapper. I unwrap Xavier's bar and hand it to him. Xavier begins eating his bar while I reach up and grab the keys from their place on a nail by the door. "Ready to go, guys?" I ask.
"I'm weady." Orian says. Xavier frowns and asks me, "Are we late?" "Just a little late, baby. Not too bad. If we hurry you can get to class before the bell rings." I unlock the front door and open it up. The boys rush out through the door, almost knocking me over.
The day has begun.
To be continued . . .