Thomas:  ”Is it school today?”

Me: “Yes. And then violin lessons. And then the Millers for dinner.”

Thomas sighs.

We go about getting on clothes. Too tight. Too scratchy. Too cold. Off on on off. Stuck on his big noggin — when he was a baby and height and weight were in the 20th percentile, his head was always off the chart.

Bea stays curled up until the last possible moment, and then grumbles that she doesn’t have any clean sweat pants. She hates jeans.

“Bea, brush your hair.”

At the table, Bea keeps working on her Interesting Word List for English class. She eats her bagel in little bits. Ignores me.

Thomas is on the sofa with his Lambie. He hollers:  ”Snuggle!!”  (That means: Mama, get over here NOW and hold me.”

“I’m busy getting everything ready for everybody. In a minute.”

I call out the school  lunch menu for the week. They get to choose one lunch. Invariably, they choose pizza. This week it falls on Friday, Alex’s one day of the week to make lunch for them. Damn.

“Bea, brush your hair!”

Bea ignores me. Says instead:  ”We have ITBS today. I’m scared.”

“Honey, it’s a test. Sadly, you’ll take many many tests in your life, many that really don’t matter all that much. But perhaps the best thing you can learn from this is how to take a test and how to be comfortable doing it.”

She looks at me like I’m half nuts, half sage. Too much information? Not enough? Ah, the tightrope walk of parenting.

Thomas:  ”Mama, where are you?”

Me:  ”Um, right here. About 5-feet away from you.”

“SNUGGLE!”

I stop. We snuggle. He burrows into my shoulder. Bea comes over, sticky bagel in hand and nudges into the other side of me. We sit like that in silence for a minute or two. Then Mama Brain checks the time on her cell phone. It’s 8:19. The first bell is in a minute. I call Alex to see where the heck he is, while also encouraging the kids to the door. As the phone rings, I hear Bea, “Daddy’s here!”

He stands in the doorway, letting in the cold air as I scramble to find gloves and get the backpacks zipped. “Just come in and help, please!” I implore.

I scrunch down over Thomas’ shoes, trying to buckle them.

Alex barks:  ”Thomas, you know how to put on your own shoes.” (I hate it when he barks. He says it’s my Midwesterness, that everyone on the East Coast talks like this.)

Thomas, as though it were a question and not the rebuke I hear, says, “Yeah.”

“Well, do it.”

I now feel foolish sitting on the floor over his feet. It’s as much a rebuke of me as it is of Thomas.

I get up and zip Bea’s coat which sticks and which Alex is standing there ignoring. He snaps at her and at Thomas again:  ”Hurry up guys!”

“I really don’t appreciate you bringing this energy into the house,” I say, oddly aware of the fact that I’m wearing a thin nightshirt and no bra and he’s fully dressed, looking like a grown-up.

“I’m just trying to help get everyone going.”

“It would have been more helpful if you’d been here ten minutes ago.”

Bea:  ”Yeah, dad. She has a good point.”

Ah, I love my daughter – with her hair that looks like a bird’s nest and cream cheese smeared on her cheeks. She sees it all.