This morning, I had to stifle a laugh when I witnessed a first grader accidentally topple a row of bikes. She was late for school, dragging her bike the last few feet before parking it in front of the principal’s office. “Come ON!” her mother pleaded. “The bell just rang!” Their hurried footsteps echoed along the pavement, a routine I know all too well. Just moments before, I had been engaged in my own chaotic morning ritual, coaxing my five-year-old son into his kindergarten class at the last possible moment.
I had already passed Little Miss Tardy when I heard the unmistakable crash. In her rush, she had carelessly tossed her bike into a neatly lined row of colorful handlebars and sparkly helmets, which toppled one after the other. When the last bike clattered down at the feet of a surprised dad, I couldn’t help but chuckle.
I laughed—not to humiliate her (though her mother might have been less than pleased)—but because mornings are universally tough. I feel you, little ponytailed girl. If I had a bike and a helmet like yours, I might just do the same, flinging them into the bike rack as a playful rebellion against a world that demands too much too fast, especially from kids who take their time to explore every Lego ship on the way to the bathroom every single morning. Oh wait, that’s my reality.
Every morning, my partner and I clash over our completely ineffective morning routine. “We HAVE to come up with a better plan,” I hiss at him while yanking Max’s shirt over his head and steering him toward the bathroom. We’ve even consulted a parenting coach. “You need to find what motivates him,” she advised, that infuriatingly simple tone that experts often use. So we tried.
There ought to be a law against sticker charts in the morning. Five-year-olds couldn’t care less about stickers when they’re busy squeezing every last drop of toothpaste onto their brushes. And let’s not even talk about the tyranny of the clock. The pressure to be anywhere on time is a challenge when you’re wrangling small humans. Potty breaks, underpants, pants, shirts, socks—“I can’t find my shoes!” Brush teeth, too much toothpaste, wrong color, spit water everywhere. Comb hair, “That hurts!” No, I like it like this! PJ’s in the hamper please, not on the floor! Make breakfast, argue, spill, make another breakfast, yell about being hungry, eat, whine, clean the mess off their face.
And that’s just one child. Each morning feels like a race against time. My kids move slower than sap dripping down tree branches in winter, while I yell with the frantic energy of a mom terrified her kid is about to fall off the monkey bars. Absolute chaos. And that’s on days when I skip showering or makeup. By the time we’re out the door, we’re out of time, out of patience, and out of creative motivational strategies fit for glossy parenting magazines. If I could, I’d throw my coffee cup at something—if I didn’t need it so much.
I understand we’re trying to raise responsible, accountable kids who are aware of their impact on the world around them. There are countless articles on how to achieve this. This, however, is not one of them. This is an invitation to the “I’m Glad You Made It” club.
Mornings are tough—at my house and at yours. So, to the parking lot attendant who clucks her tongue and urges us to hurry when we arrive at school, how about switching things up? Instead of “The BELL just rang! Hurry! Hurry!”, let’s hear “Good morning! I’m glad you made it!”
“I’m glad you made it,” when you see the mom with the wet ponytail dragging her baby out of the car and grabbing her kindergartner’s hand. “I’m glad you made it,” when the first grader tosses her bike into the rack in a fit of frustration. “I’m glad you made it” when a five-year-old with messy bedhead slides into the classroom at 8:34 a.m. I see your efforts. I know you’re learning to navigate this world, even when it takes a little longer.
We have plenty of time to stress about how quickly the minutes slip away. At night, as we tuck our kids in and finally get to unwind with Netflix and a glass of wine, we count the seconds between their breaths, the stories before they drift off, and the hours of sleep until morning comes again. We tally the years that slip by and try to cherish the moments that feel both fleeting and eternal.
So don’t rush us. Not yet. Our children will spend a lifetime feeling pressured to be responsible and fast. We know this all too well. Mornings are tough. If I could indulge in a little Lego playtime while heading to the bathroom or toss my bike into the rack like that first grader, I’d gladly join in.
Sometimes, just showing up is worth the points. So tomorrow, when your daughter drops her backpack in a puddle and my son stops to examine every stick on the playground, I’ll catch your eye and share a laugh. We can rush later. For now, I’m simply glad you made it.
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In summary, mornings can be chaotic and challenging for parents everywhere, but it’s important to embrace the struggles and celebrate the small victories together.