The Lump

The weekend is here. Delicious.

This week was Ethan's first week of kindergarten. There is no bus service for his school, so I have been dropping off (8:25 a.m.) and picking up (3:25 p.m.) since my work schedule is the "flexible" one. Flexible means that when I am not sitting at my desk, my clients only call my cell once every thirteen minutes, as opposed to when I am in the office, and then they call my office phone every four.

The school has sent home approximately 7,000 documents this week, give or take a few hundred. 6,998 of them are about what happens if your child arrives "tardy" to school in the morning or the parent is "tardy" for pick-up in the afternoon. From what I can discern, the punishment is VERY severe, and may or may not include leeches and/or some form of Chinese water torture.

I am not good at being on time. I have never been good at being on time. I could generously be classified as "not a morning person." I think "mornings" should start sometime around 11:30 a.m. and involve brunch and two to three mimosas before requiring any heavy lifting on my part. If I ever become President, that will be my first piece of legislation. All of these factors conspire to make getting out of the house in the early morning exceptionally difficult for me. The other factor conspiring against promptness is the five-year-old involved in this process who is, incidentally, also not a morning person. Given his druthers, we would be in our pajamas, eating Cheerios from the box, watching cartoons until sundown. This, actually, sounds fabulous right about now.

My week in review:

At 6:30 a.m. I have looked at my alarm and thought, "Are you freaking kidding me?"

At 6:40 a.m. I have coffee'd up, showered, dressed, and slapped on a little make-up so as not to scare the other moms at drop-off with the depth and breadth of my undereye circles.

At 7:10 a.m. I have prepared a breakfast chock full 'o nutrients and the proper balance of complex carbohydrate and protein for sustained long-term academic performance (for Ethan, not me - typically I "eat" only coffee until about 2 p.m. This is not because I do not enjoy breakfast - I do! - but because I am always at least ten minutes behind schedule).

At 7:15 a.m. I have made efforts to rouse the troop (singular) with a cheery morning greeting. The Snoring Bed Lump ignores me completely.

At 7:20 a.m. after seeing no activity from The Snoring Bed Lump, I have repeated cheery morning greeting, this time with a firm edge to my voice.

At 7:25 a.m. I have started making empty threats to The Snoring Bed Lump about things that will be taken away if The Snoring Bed Lump does not get up RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND and I MEAN IT. "No bike riding after school! And that pony that someday you might get if we win the lottery? Not now, Mister. And you can FORGET about that drivers license when you turn sixteen … "

At 7:30 a.m. The Lump is now sitting at the table. He is upright and out of bed but for all intensive purposes, still asleep, although not now snoring. I have enthusiastically tried to coax him to take a bite of each item on his breakfast plate. "Try the mango! Look – it so ORANGE! And ORGANIC! And TROPICAL! You will like it! Just one bite! Half a bite! A quarter of a bite? Ok, just put it in your mouth, suck on it for five seconds, then spit it back out on your plate?" The Lump's response: "AHH! The mango is TOO cold! It tastes funny! It is SLIMY!"

At 7:37 a.m. I have given up, rinsed off the plate, slammed the last swill of my coffee from the mug and thrown a handful of Mini-Wheats (frosted, of course) in a plastic bag for The Lump to eat in the car. The Lump has now put his head down on the table and appears to be snoring, again.

At 7:38 a.m. I have put toothpaste on the brush because The Lump claims the tube is "too hard to squeeze in the morning when I am soooo tired!" I have coaxed The Lump, unsuccessfully, to engage in a thorough tooth brushing. Response: "AHH! The toothpaste is TOO cold! It tastes funny! It is SLIMY!"

At 7:42 a.m. I have given up on efforts at oral hygiene and am making empty threats about rotten teeth and eventual root canals. "Fine, you only want to brush one tooth? When the other nineteen fall out, you are going to be the one to explain to Grandpa why your teeth are now missing." Grandpa is - by trade - a dentist, not just some weird guy interested in teeth. Although, as I type this I realize "some weird guy interested in teeth" is, by definition, what a dentist is …

At 7:43 a.m. I have attempted to sunscreen The Lump, while avoiding direct contact with his breath, since he has only brushed one tooth. Response: "AHH! The sunscreen is TOO cold! It smells funny! It is SLIMY!"

At 7:45 a.m. I have requested that The Lump get dressed, please? The Lump has collapsed on the floor, spent from resisting everything for the past thirty minutes and from lack of food since The Lump only consumed four calories at breakfast.

At 7:50 a.m. I have asked The Lump, "Why are you still in your underwear?! Please, please, please put your clothes on."

At 7:55 a.m. I have asked The Lump why he still does not have any clothes on and why he has now removed the underwear he had on five minutes ago.

At 8:00 a.m. I have walked out the door with his backpack, his lunchbox, my laptop bag, my purse and my sanity balanced precariously. The Lump has followed holding his pants in his hand, which he will then put on while standing on the front porch. I have smiled cheerfully at the neighbors, "Good morning! Have a good day!"

At 8:02 a.m. I have been stuck in traffic, gritting my teeth, and find myself questioning whether I, after all the oral demands made of the Lump, have brushed my own teeth yet this morning?

At 8:10 a.m. I have restrained myself from pounding the steering wheel with my fists – still in traffic! -- and started to break a sweat thinking about all those anti-tardy leeches.

At 8:20 a.m. I have been responsive DJ for all The Lump's requests. His favorite to groove along with: "Momma, Don't Ya Tickle My Ticklish Toes." [Chorus: Don't ya don't ya don't ya tickle my toes, my toes ... momma, don't ya tickle my toes, my toes ...] Door to door, we can play this nine and one-third times. This song also gets played on repeat all the way home. One week, two round-trip drives per day. You do the math.

At 8:25 a.m. I have peeled rubber pulling into the school lot and dragged The Lump, his backpack, his lunchbox, my purse, and my sanity out of the car and hauled some serious ass into the school lobby, smiling cheerfully at other parents, "Good morning! Have a good day!"

In between drop-off and pick-up, I have worked, ignored crazed cell phone calls from clients and opposing counsel, visited the doctor (always – does anyone else under the age of eighty-eight go to the doctor this much?), and procured more coffee along the way. Notice I do not mention "eating." This is because I have not eaten much of anything until dinnertime, with the exception of a few sad stale Altoids fuzzy from rattling around in the bottom of my purse since 2006. I believe the clinical diagnosis is insane schedule induced anorexia. At this rate, I will be smaller than my high school size by my class reunion in November!

At 3:15 p.m. I have returned to gather Ethan (magically, he transforms from The Lump into a smiley, happy kid sometime around morning snack – his teacher reports how "charming" he is), his lunchbox, his backpack, his homework and my sanity from the school lobby, smiling cheerfully at the other parents, "Good afternoon! How was your day?"

Beginning at 4:00 p.m. I have started supervising homework, lunch packing, ignored crazed cell phone calls from clients and opposing counsel, prepared dinner, run bath, read bedtime stories, tucked in, stalked some people on Facebook, and maybe indulged in a little chocolate and some wine.

At midnight … I have CRASHED.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Jeff noticed my frayed-around-the-edges look tonight and kindly suggested that maybe I wanted to sleep in tomorrow? Until noon?

And I was all ... tomorrow ... until noon? Right now, I want to sleep from tomorrow until June.