Page 58 of The Write Choice

“Hey! What are you doing?” I ask, crossing his room to shut off his alarm.

He only groans in response.

Luckily, I’m tall enough to reach into the loft bed and poke him, which elicits another groan. I count to ten, and when he hasn’t moved yet, I drag the blanket off of him.

“Let’s move! If you miss school, you’ll also miss your playdate.” Truthfully, he won’t miss his playdate. Katie set it up with Ben’s sister for both of our kids to go over there and play while the adults are here for a few hours, but he doesn’t know that.

“Fine,” he grumbles as he descends the ladder.

He’s already dressed, but since he got back in bed after waking us up, his clothes are completely wrinkled.

“Mason, you’re going to have to change.”

That wakes him up. “What? No! I picked out this outfit special to hang out with Brody!” he whines.

“You can’t go to school looking like you pulled your clothes straight out of the laundry,” I insist.

He stamps his foot on the ground and folds his arms across his chest, pouting his bottom lip. He actually looks like he might cry. I check my watch again.

I do not have time for this.

“Fine, do what you want. Brush your teeth and go start packing your lunch,” I sigh as I make my way to Christine’s room.

She’s awake, at least, but she has tried to dress herself with about as much success as you might expect from a newly-three-year-old. Her pants are on backwards and she only has one arm through her shirtsleeve. She’s truly struggling, little grunts escaping as she turns in circles trying to grab the other sleeve, like a dog chasing her tail.

“Oh, baby. Here, let me help you.” I try to stay calm because I’m not sure if she’s going to laugh or have a meltdown.

She stops turning and looks at me, her eyes wide and brimming with tears. A meltdown, then. Great.

She lets out a wail as she tries to say something, but I can’t make it out. I scoop her up and press her head gently into my shoulder. I can feel the tears moistening the fabric of my shirt. It’s okay. They’ll dry. But, once she’s calmed down, she turns her face to rub her runny nose on my shoulder.

Gross, kid.

I don’t say anything about it, though, because we’re late and this will cause another meltdown. I simply put her on the ground, get her other arm through the sleeve, take her pants off so I can put them on the right way, then let her pick her socks. I know it’s going to take her a good five minutes to pick out the pair she wants, but that’s shorter than the ten minutes it’ll take if I try to do it for her and she melts down again.

I can hear Mason in the kitchen slamming cabinet doors, which is a good sign he is working on his lunch. Maybe this morning can be salvaged.

When Christine is finally dressed, I take her to the kids’ bathroom to brush her teeth. She wails again as I do it, but at this point, I don’t have time to care. I carry her downstairs despite her protests that she can walk by herself—no time for that, either—and when I enter the kitchen, it looks like packages of food have exploded all over the kitchen island counter.

“Mason, what are you doing?” I ask, setting Christine on her feet. She immediately marches off to find something to soothe whatever hurt I caused.

“Packing my lunch and eating breakfast,” he says around a mouthful of food. “But I need you to make my sandwich.”

Shit. Breakfast. Okay. I grab a packet of bite-sized muffins from where Mason had tossed it on the corner of the island and tear them open. I hand them to Christine, who has returned with her favorite doll. Thankfully, she reaches in and shoves a fistful of them in her mouth before sitting right there on the floor to play.

Good enough.

Mason goes to the mudroom, presumably—hopefully—to find his backpack and shoes. I take the peanut butter out of the pantry and start smearing it on a slice of bread.

“Dad!” Mason sounds alarmed as he comes back into the room. “What are you doing?”

The hand holding the knife stills as I shift my eyes to him. “Making your sandwich. Like you asked.” I don’t mean for my words to sound clipped, but this morning is turning into a shit show real fast.

“I can’t take peanut butter.” He spits the words out like they’re disgusting. “There’s someone in my class who’s allergic!”

I school my face to neutrality as I slowly push the two pieces of bread together and hover them over the garbage can that Mason already pulled out of its drawer under the island.

On second thought, no sense letting good food go to waste. I raise it to my mouth and take a bite. Peanut butter sandwich isn’t my first choice for breakfast, but it’ll do.