Egging 'em on

Across America, the "morning scramble" is not a breakfast dish. It's the mad dash to get the kids out the door to school.

In a fit of blind optimism, parents start each day with the notion that everyone in the family will be on schedule, and we won't have to race around crazily at the last minute. Each school day, we hopeful parents watch those expectations dashed.

As is the case with so many things, the children hold an opposing viewpoint. The children do not care if they are late. They're not thrilled about spending the day in school anyway. They maintain that they would happily live forever as uneducated goatherds if they could be allowed to sleep for only five more minutes. Thus it begins. Every day.

Once they're up, younger children tend to wander off. Teens are too busy text-messaging their friends to actually get ready for school. Sleepy kids of any age seem to have difficulty with the question, "Where are your shoes?"

When our two sons were small, the culprit was distraction. They'd forget they were supposed to be, say, rounding up socks that weren't crunchy. Instead, I would find them watching cartoons, or barefoot in the yard with the dog. Or dressing in a ninja costume, "just to try it out," five minutes before departure to school.

And there was always a last-second disaster of some sort. I spilled my milk. I can't find my homework. The dog won't give me my shoe. We'd scramble about, solving crises, until the last possible moment, then zoom out the door, trying to reach school before the final bell, weaving through traffic like an ambulance on Saturday night.

Now that they're older, our boys require only minimal overseeing. The struggle is at the front end -- getting them out of bed -- rather than forcing breakfast down their gullets or locating their missing science project. It goes like this:

5:45 a.m.
Mom: "Good morning! Time to get up. Here comes the light! Get up!"
5:55 a.m.
Dad: "Good morning! Rise and shine there, boys!"
6 a.m.
Mom: "You guys must get up now. You're going to be late."
6:10 a.m.
Dad: "Hey, come on. What's the matter with you? Did you stay up all night?"
6:15 a.m.
Dad: "Get. Up. Now."
6:20 a.m.
Mom: "I'm coming back here in two minutes with a pitcher of ice water. Whoever's still in bed gets it."
6:30 a.m.
Boys reel around house, yawning and sniffling, wolfing food and throwing on the rags that pass for their clothes. Mom and Dad nervously hound them with questions -- "Did you brush your teeth?" or "You call that breakfast?" or "Is that the way you WANT your hair to look?" -- all the way out the door.

One day, as younger son sprinted to his room to fetch something he'd forgotten, the older one waited by the front door. A veteran of years of racing off to school, he gave his parents a wry smile and said, "We were almost on time today."

As a hopeful parent, I thought: There's always tomorrow.

Notes from Pismo

Nothing takes the go-go-go out of the harried Christmas season like a few days at the beach. Kel and I recently celebrated our 25th anniversary with a second honeymoon at Pismo Beach, and she's got photos here. One day, I too will know how to post photos to my blog, but that day is not today. So go check 'em out at Pink Hollyhock.

I spent a good deal of the trip sitting on our veranda, watching the waves crash against the cliffs, and I had many deep thoughts that I can't remember now. I did, however, make a few notes:

--At the beach, everyone looks sunburned and windswept.

--At sunup, it's a little chilly for sipping coffee on my second-floor veranda, so I wear unlaced sneakers and a leather flight jacket with my pajamas. I look like the pilot on the redeye flight.

--While Kel took a nap, I sneaked in a televised NFL game with the audio off. Sure, it's our 25th anniversary and all, but come on. The playoffs are coming up.

--Otters!

--In the harsh glare of the motel bathroom light, my wiry white whiskers make me look like a sidekick. Gabby Hayes, somebody like that.

--It is not possible to stare long at white seabirds without thinking of the word "wheeling."

--One insistently shrieking seagull can ruin a perfectly good veranda.

Barefoot bear barely beats bus

As I write this, the soles of my feet are still smarting from my morning jog on the sidewalk outside.

That's because I went jogging in bare feet and pajamas, chasing after my son, who'd hiked off toward the school bus stop. Without his lunch money.

Haha, you say, that must've been a sight -- fat old bear of a guy puffing along in his PJ's -- and I'm sure you're right. Fortunately, I didn't run into any neighbors. Their kids apparently remembered their lunch money before leaving the house.

All across America, however, other parents know that sinking feeling that occurs when they realize the kids have departed the house without their lunch money/musical instruments/homework/science projects/pants. Chasing after them is a major source of exercise for parents of school-age children.

You'd think that, after a few years of this, the kids would learn to do their own inventory before they leave. Pat down their pockets, asking themselves, "Have I got everything I need?" But you'd be wrong.

Kids never learn this. The son I was chasing this morning? He's 15.

Yes, I could've let him go without lunch. Yes, I could've made him beg food off his friends; he's done it before. All you stern disciplinarians out there will think: Could've taught him a lesson. But, whoops, you'd be wrong again. Adolescents don't learn from such experiences. They simply blame us parents for forgetting the lunch money, and we have to hear about their suffering for a week. Better to go for the morning jog in jammies.

No matter how well-prepared the parents may be, no matter how much planning is done or how many outfits are laid out the night before, school-day mornings are chaos.

Everyone's working at cross-purposes. The children typically aren't eager to run out the door for another day of enforced edification, so they drag their feet or wander off. We parents want the kids out of the house, equipped with everything they need for the school day, so we follow them from room to room, wringing our hands and saying, "Do you have your homework? Lunch money? Did you brush your teeth? Comb your hair? Do you have your house key?"

That last-minute inventory-taking is important. Without it, parents find themselves driving to school hours later, ferrying a Play-Doh volcano to Science Fair before the deadline expires. (Murphy's Law says the project will slide off the seat into the floorboard, so the parent shows up with a lopsided volcano. More recriminations.)

The morning routine gets slightly easier as the kids get older. Kindergarteners need so much stuff -- snacks, jackets, mittens, paste, pencils -- that parents need a U-Haul trailer to ferry it all down to the bus stop. Elementary school students have less to carry because all their stuff is in the school lost-and-found.

Teens haul their own junk in their enormous backpacks, but they still must be quizzed about what they're forgetting. And, they must be forced to remove their stereo headphones to hear the questions, which makes them grumble and snarl.

It's worth all the fuss, though, when the parent goes through the list and hits upon the one item the kid's forgotten:

Parent: "Did you brush your teeth?"
Kid: "Of course." (Rolling eyes.) "Gawd."
Parent: "Got your homework?"
Kid: "Uh, no."
Parent: "A-ha!"

There's no time to gloat, however. You need to save your breath. Because a few minutes later, you'll be running for the bus stop, screaming your child's name and waving his lunch money over your head.

I recommend shoes.

(Editor's note: I wrote this one a few years ago. Now, in similar circumstances, we call the teen's cell phone and say, "Come back and get your lunch money. Or starve."

Rocketing to school

For parents, every school day morning presents a mad dash to the bell.

We scramble around the house like Keystone Kops in bathrobes, frenetically trying to get everyone fed, hosed off, dressed, brushed, backpacked and out the door on time.

Here's how it goes at our house:

7 a.m. Mom cheerfully awakens sleepy sons, aged 8 and 10. She departs for work.

7:02 a.m. Dad walks length of the house to kitchen, where he sets out bowls, spoons, napkins, cereal, milk.

7:06 a.m. Dad returns to bedroom, cheerfully reminds boys they should be in a fully locked and upright position.

7:08 a.m. Dad, back in kitchen, pours himself more coffee. Starts singing, in a loud "Oklahoma" basso profundo, "I'm gonna be the first one ready. Oh, yes I AM."

7:11 a.m. Dad returns to bedroom, finds boys have not risen to bait. Not so cheerfully reminds them that breakfast awaits.

7:15 a.m. Dad lets dog outside for fourth time since arising. Sings some more.

7: 20 a.m. Dad rushes into bedroom, tickles boys until they either must get up or wet their pants.

7:22 a.m. Boys run squealing to bathroom.

7:23 a.m. Dad sends boys to kitchen. Reminds them departure is scheduled for 8:30 a.m.

7:25 a.m. Dad steps on scale in his bathroom. Mutters curses. Shaves, showers, stares into mirror remembering lost youth, locates and puts on clean clothes, checks teeth again, takes deep breath and goes in search of sons.

8:06 a.m. Finds them still at table, flicking Froot Loops at each other.

8:07 a.m. Dad suffers minor cardiac arrhythmia. Urges boys to jump into their clothes.

8:08 a.m. Everyone sprints in different directions.

8:11 a.m. Dad pours more coffee, notices hand is shaking.

8:12 a.m. Dad races around, barking orders at boys, who blissfully ignore him.

8:15 a.m. Older son, half-dressed, announces he forgot to do homework the night before. Dad melts into steaming puddle on floor.

8:19 a.m. Having gotten older son seated in front of empty homework page, Dad hurries to other end of house, where he finds barefoot 8-year-old making motorboat noises with his mouth. Dad: "Why do you have a rocket ship in your hand instead of a sock?"

8:20 a.m. Dad, back at table, sees older son has made progress on homework, though it's all unreadable. Dad suggests corrective measures.

8:24 a.m. Dad returns to younger son's room, is informed son's shoes have been stolen.

8:25 a.m. Frantic shoe hunt commences.

8:26 a.m. Older son finishes homework, leaves it on dining room table. Runs off to play.

8:27 a.m. Frantic shoe hunt continues. Dad muttering, "I always know where MY shoes are. How can a person lose his SHOES?"

8:28 a.m. Dad shouts for older son to join hunt. Older son can't be located.

8:29 a.m. Shoes found under parents' bed. Younger son denies allegations he's been jumping on bed again.

8:30 a.m. Dad screams commands. Sons wriggle into sweatshirts. Run off to bathroom to redo mussed hair.

8:31 a.m. Dad grinds teeth.

8:32 a.m. All three sprint to automobile like a pit crew.

8:33 a.m. Dad discovers windshield is covered in frost. A frenzy of scraping ensues. Older son ambles back to house to get homework.

8:35 a.m. Dad proceeds to school, zooming through traffic like Al Unser.

8:45 a.m. Screeches to halt outside school.

8:46 a.m. Boys choose this moment to ask important questions about life. Dad answers calmly, craving cigarette.

8:49 a.m. Dad asks boys to eject from car, but they insist on hearing Spin Doctors song on the radio.

8:54 a.m. Dad pushes boys out of car, bids them farewell with a fond, "Stay out of trouble today!"

8:55 a.m. Bell rings.

9:07 a.m. Dad arrives homes, exhausted and jittery. Finds that friendly elves have not cleaned kitchen in his absence. Kitchen looks like the dining room on the Titanic.

9:08 a.m. Dad sighs wearily and begins cleaning.

9:18 a.m. Dad finishes scraping barnacles of jam off tabletop, pours more coffee, settles into comfy chair at his desk. Turns on computer.

9:25 a.m. After the usual two reboots, Dad is ready for workday to begin.