Today I made the mistake of turning on the TV in an attempt to wake the boys gently into a good mood. It worked, to a point. It woke them. It intrigued them. So much so that they had no intention whatsoever of moving until the show that was on (Zaboomafoo) was over. So I dressed them in my bed and got them pretty much ready to go. When the show ended, they willingly went to use the potty. Here's where things went horribly, horribly awry.
First, Eddie came out crying. He'd gotten his jeans down, but not, apparently, his underpants. So I took off shoes, pants and undies and replaced them. Then Chas emerged. Same. Exact. Problem. Everything was compounded by their complete unwillingness to, oh, I don't know, move with any sort of deliberate speed toward the front door. As a result we were, once again, rushing into the door of preschool 30 seconds after it was supposed to start. I was frustrated. So I tried talking to them about it. I explained, acknowledging the rage that was bubbling just below the surface: "When you guys don't listen to me in the morning and don't get ready like you're supposed to, it makes us late. And that makes Mommy very upset."
"That's what we do," Eddie said in the same tone a firefighter might use to simultaneously downplay the heroics of a rescue but drive home that the job of a firefighter is more important than your paper-pushing 9 to 5 gig. I swear to you, the little &$#(@ was proud of driving me to the brink of insanity. Or maybe he's smarter than I give him credit for. Because his well-placed comment instantly made me smile and get over my damn self. I mean we were late. Again. For preschool. It really isn't worth elevating my or their blood pressure over, is it?
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