“Hurry up” is my mantra every morning. Every morning I strive to leave by 7:15 a.m. so I can make it to work on time, but every morning something or someone slows me down.
The other morning I had risen early to have half an hour to myself to write before I had to shower, primp and wake the kids. My suit lay on my bed, carefully coordinated with shoes and jewelry the night before. I blew my hair dry and applied my makeup.
Turning on the light, I entered my four-year-old son Maclean’s room to wake him a half hour before we had to leave. Next it was his younger brother, two-year-old Blake’s, turn. He still likes a bottle in the morning so that sat warmed and ready in the microwave.
We descended to the living room, the dog still snuggled on his mat upstairs being the only member of the house that didn’t have somewhere else to be. I flipped the cartoons on and bolted back upstairs to get dressed. As I stared at the bright red 7:05 on my night stand clock, I groaned. I’d forgotten to call the automated tee time booking service that opened five minutes ago, after promising friends that I would arrange our golf game for Sunday morning.
While holding the phone with one hand, I shimmied out of my pjs and into my bra and undies trying to avoid the open window. Shifting the phone to the other shoulder, I hopped on one leg shoving the other into my skirt.
Blake finished his bottle and submitted to wardrobe. Maclean wanted to watch one more cartoon, eat a snack prepared by me when I had NO time left, and pick a toy for the day home before getting dressed.
Checking my watch, I tried the “hurry up, or we’ll be late” adult reasoning. He stared blankly at the TV and shrugged. I turned it off and said “upstairs now please. Time to go potty and get dressed,” in a singsong preschool teacher’s most optimistic voice.
Maclean retorted with ‘no’.
Short of carrying him up the stairs and stripping him against his will, I didn’t see how I could make it to the day home and then the train to get downtown in a reasonable facsimile of punctuality.
Blake sat ready to go. I stood buffed, polished and starting to perspire.
“Let’s go buddy.”
“No!” Maclean crossed his arms over his heaving chest.
The tug of war began and I could see myself sliding helplessly towards the mud puddle. My blood pressure rose and my cheeks flushed. I pictured a pink slip on my desk with the words ‘chronically tardy’ slashed across in red pen.
“Hurry up,” I shrieked, then remorsefully added “I’m sorry buddy, but please cooperate with Mommy”.
“No.”
The dog lumbered down the stairs, wiped his drooly muzzle across Maclean’s face in a morning kiss before stopping to stare at the back door until I could attend to his needs.
Painfully, slowly, Maclean rose. Grabbing a toy like a last request from the floor, he plodded up the stairs.
With Maclean dressed and back downstairs I instructed, “Pick your toys for the day home and Mommy will go get the car. When I’m back, we’ve gotta go.”
Pressing the garage door opener incessantly while juggling my briefcase and the boys’ backpack, I willed the ancient motor to whir into warp speed. I crouched to sneak under the creaking door, threw the bags in, cranked the engine and wheeled the car out to idle in the driveway.
Blake had a Thomas the Tank Engine video instead of a toy. Maclean had disappeared. “Let’s Go!” I cried cheerily.
“Mommy, come here,” came Maclean’s reply from the kitchen.
“Can’t buddy. Hurry up.”
I kicked my shoes off and marched into the kitchen. I had let the dog out and promptly forgot about him. He glared at me, tired and disgusted (brown labs can say all that with their droopy golden eyes).
Maclean wasn’t looking at the dog though. He stood transfixed, staring at the screen on the outside of the door. Perched on the black mesh was a dragonfly, its still wings reflecting a rainbow of colours in the early morning light.
My sister, tenant and part-time child wrangler, emerged from the basement.
“Look Auntie,” Maclean beckoned her over to see his prize.
“That’s nice honey, gotta go.” I reached for the door handle to let the dog in. Maclean watched the dragonfly take flight.
Auntie helped Maclean put his shoes on before we ran for the car, which was probably down a half-tank of gas by now.
As I strapped them into their car seats Maclean said, “Mommy that dragonfly was neat.”
“Yes honey.” I jammed the gearshift into reverse and flew down the driveway, fiddling with the radio to find the traffic news.
As we sped up the road, a small voice from the backseat said, “It was waiting for us”.
I eased my foot off the accelerator, turned down the radio and with a smile at him in the rearview mirror replied, “Yes honey, it was.”
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