The garage door shuts, and I let out an audible sigh. The kids are in the car, and their dad is taking them to school.
The silence that surrounds me is in direct contrast to the screaming, whining chaos I just shoved out the door.
Trying to get two toddler boys ready in the morning is not for the faint of heart. It requires motivation, stamina, patience, and a surprising level of physical fitness. I’m reminded of this every time I’m left panting from the wrestling match required to put pants on my two-year-old.
On the best days, I’m two steps ahead – breakfast on the table before they come downstairs, clothes laid out, snacks ready to go once seat belts are buckled. But on days like today, I’m running around the kitchen with unbrushed teeth, trying to assemble my four-year-old’s very specific breakfast order while chasing his brother around the kitchen.
He demands toast with honey, one cup of apple juice, one cup of milk with a scoop of chocolate protein powder, and four vitamin gummies, of which at least two must be red.
My two-year-old’s demands are no less specific and, of course, share zero overlap with his brother’s. His milk must be waiting for him on the counter beside the fridge. If I try to carry it to the table for him, I’m doomed. At his place is a bowl of oatmeal he almost certainly won’t eat — but will definitely notice if it’s not there.
If I’m lucky, we’ll all sit together at the table for one full minute before someone wants to get up, spills a drink, or demands an amendment to their order like I’m a short-order cook.
Somewhere in the kitchen, a cold cup of coffee laughs at my naive attempt to caffeinate.
After breakfast, someone inevitably dumps an entire basket of Hot Wheels across the floor — a noise that haunts me in my sleep. The two-year-old runs laps through the house yelling “NAKED BOY!” in between putting on each piece of clothing. The four-year-old is somewhere talking with my parents on FaceTime, and my husband is taking the world’s fastest shower before sprinting out the door.
And then silence.
I look around and assess the damage. The kitchen looks like the Tasmanian Devil just tore through. How did we use so many cups, bowls, and plates for one meal? And why, exactly, do we own a million tiny toy cars?
Either way, I’ve crossed the finish line for the morning run up my own Philadelphia staircase, if you will. In the background, the faint sounds of a song fill my mind.
The last known survivor is just doing her best.
And she’s doing it with the eye of the toddler mom.
