These are rough estimates, mind you, but over the past nine months, mathematical deductions would conclude I have shouted the word “socks” 1,047 times – all utterances occurring between the gruesome, weekday hours of 6:24 a.m. and 6:32 a.m.
The reason I’ve had to roar the s-word so many times, dating back to last fall, is because my wife believes I have a problem letting our children figure things out on their own. Then she begins using phrases like “there need to be consequences” and “they’ll never learn” until, eventually, I pass out in a puddle of Winston’s drool. Winston is our Great Dane. If we wanted to solve the West Coast’s drought problems, we should unleash a herd of his cousins.
The real reason I’ve had to tell each of our three children to put on their socks each morning for the past nine months is because the school bus arrives anywhere between 6:39 a.m. and noon., and I’m not about to ruin my morning routine simply because our two sons have the self-awareness of a warthog. This, parenting counselors would tell you, is perfectly normal behavior for an adult such as myself.
This week marked the end of another school year for our children, and considering we have a 4-year-old daughter, it means we’ve only got 15 more years of this routine left, which is just fantastic.
For some reason, though, I’m celebrating the start of this summer break as if I, personally, just finished third grade, and it’s about a lot more than the socks, which all have holes in them. (Can someone please explain why children’s socks last about 34 days while I have a drawer full of them spanning a decade and not a single one has a hole?)
I suppose the reason for celebration has something to do with the monotonous madness of fighting school-aged children each morning. For instance, this is the second consecutive school year I have asked Alexa to send our home a child-themed alarm clock. We made this purchase less than three weeks into the school year because, by gosh, trudging up the stairs at 5:58 every morning is like a sponsor walking into a room full of relapsing drunks playing beer pong. Not a kid in that room is happy to see me.
Of course, none of our children have shown signs of an engineering career but, wow, can they take apart electronics. One evening, before bed, I asked our oldest son, Hank, why the alarm clock was not plugged in.
“It’s so annoying, Dad,” he whined.
“Where’s the plug?” I asked him.
“Gone.”
Once our hungover children make it downstairs, they do not rush to the bathroom to brush teeth or hair. No, they collapse on the couch and fall back asleep, which is why I must grab their school clothes and throw them directly on their faces in order to wake them. Again, this is completely normal dad behavior, according to the counselors.
What happens in the 30 minutes between getting dressed, eating sugar-coated circles, scrubbing sugar off the teeth, and making it to the bus so Dad’s morning isn’t ruined, is a mad dash of horrible parenting initiatives.
First, we grab backpacks from the laundry room, where they were placed the previous day and have not been touched since. Each of our sons gets a folder sent home with various pieces of paper, many of them intended for parents to peruse and act upon.
“Oh my gosh, Hank! You have a spelling test today?”
No kidding, one morning we walked from the house to the bus stop (maybe 200 yards) and learned 12 spelling words.
Another sheet of paper in this folder is a daily conduct report, which parents are required to initial. If there’s a smiley-face or unicorn stamp, it means our boys did not commit felonies while on school property. Some mornings, however, we learn that nearly 24 hours prior, one of our sons was not “on task” during math block, which means, as responsible parents, we must feign anger and disappointment and dole out consequences. We also write a note to the teacher in the tab, apologizing for our son’s wicked behavior and promising it will never happen again.
Next, we go in search of water bottles. Now, I have a whole lot of things to say about this water-bottle phenomenon happening across the globe, but I’ve neither the energy nor the space to start down that trail. What I will say is that my wife and I have purchased no less than 36 reusable water bottles in the past two years, and we’re almost out again. Someone, somewhere, must live in a castle made of these things.
In most homes, I assume the water bottle is the final step. In ours, both of our boys must go through one final TSA security check before loading the bus to determine what type of contraband they’re attempting to sneak onto campus. In one week alone, our kindergartener, Cal, came home with a smart watch and ear buds, which he acquired by trading worthless basketball cards.
So, yes, I’m celebrating a break from the morning fuss and frisk. I’ll probably use the summer to contemplate my wife’s directive to just leave our kids alone and let them figure out how to get ready for school. Or I may just sleep in a puddle of Winston’s drool. For the next 15 years.