It happens every day,

at least, every weekday.

First I wake up early,

requiring a minimum of one hour before I feel capable of coping with the world at large.

Coffee by now, no longer just an excuse but a requirement.

I think back, to a land before children.

When six am seemed impossibly early.

The land before professional responsibilities, after which on occasion, six am would be seen from the wrong side, without the assistance of friends or substances.

I think back to my childhood.

I still recall a few occasions where I was late in the morning for the school bus. The frantic run, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would fly right out of my chest as I raced down the lane that seemed to yawn ever longer, further from my goal.

As an adult when I visit my parents, I realize just how short the lane is.

Mountains out of mole hills in the child’s mind, regardless of the length.

Scrambling to finish eating and brushing my hair, the unfortunate mishap with a round brush around age 12 when I discovered that curly hair and brushes should never meet up on the deadline.

That was the day I cried as I cut the entangling strand off of the brush, nearly missing catching the bus.

That was the day I fiddled with my hair at school all day, wondering if I’d given myself hasty bald spots for all my pains.

It’s also the last day I brushed my hair with a brush.

Now as a parent, the same challenges apply, but with added frustration.

Three times the bodies to outfit, feed, and pack up. Four, if I include myself.

I can plan for myself, but it is difficult to plan for all the sundries required five minutes before school begins with three small children.

The last minute “but I need to bring —.”

Or, “we were supposed to have permission slips signed.”

And of course, the eternal struggle of the sibling, torn between the desire to be a best friends and a mortal enemy.

Some mornings, I feel like a referee, breaking up fights after fight after fight. Today, there were no fights.

The middle took forty-five minutes to put pants on, however, which means a breakfast bar to go and tears aplenty.

The oldest ready and packed, but forgot to brush teeth until reminded.

And the youngest, luckily, not in school yet, pouring themselves cereal as I packed my own bag.

But for all the heart pounding adrenaline, tears, and recriminations,

somehow, we all made it out of the house more or less on time.

Another Wednesday, another day in the legion of days where the morning rush leaves me breathless.

And I wonder, as I hugging kiss and drive away;

why hasn’t anyone fixed this problem yet?