I wake up every morning and try to greet the day with a good attitude. I’m not jumping up and dancing around at the foot of my bed—my ankles won’t allow it—but I am quietly thinking to myself, Let’s make the best of it.
And then I open my bedroom door and enter what can only be described as the chaos of an emergency room on New Year’s Eve. People are running, cursing, and screaming in complete panic. Kids are being yelled at for being too slow, there’s a lot of crying, and we are always running out of time.
This is a school morning; my wife is going nuts and I haven’t had a sip of coffee.
No one is eating right, eating fast enough, or cleaning up after they’re eating. They haven’t combed their hair the right way, they’ve looked at their phone too many times, and she doesn’t like their attitude.
“Don’t you roll your eyes at me.”
I know mornings are tough and getting kids out the door is next to impossible, but I don’t see how this strategy of yelling at everyone is helpful. Imagine a captain of a rowing team who sits at the front of the boat with the little megaphone and instead of yelling, “stroke, stroke!” they just scream abuse at the rowers.
“You always use too much syrup. Why are you always late? Did you pick up your socks? I’m going to take away your phone. Don’t use so much butter. Why are you wearing that?”
Not only would that team lose, but the rowers would jump overboard and start swimming for shore.
Why all the panic? This isn’t life or death. If you mess up in the emergency room someone could die. What happens if we’re five minutes late for school? Nothing. Not a damn thing. The kid will need a note? Well, I can write a note. I can write notes all day long.
We’re late. Yours truly, Mr. Papa. You want another note? Let me get some paper. Here you go: Sorry we’re late again. If it looks like my daughter was crying on her way to school, it’s because she was. Not a big deal; my wife just said something about her hair. Have a great day. Mr. Papa.
It’s not a big deal, but my wife thinks it is. She thinks if they’re late, it will go on their record and force them out of honors classes and into community college, where they’ll end up marrying some guy who stands outside the 7-Eleven and vapes for a living.
When I was a kid I used to watch cartoons, and there was always the father at the breakfast table hiding behind his newspaper. I remember thinking that this dad was rude and mean and didn’t care about his family. Now, as a father, when I sit at the table hiding behind the paper, I realize that old-cartoon Dad was just hiding in his foxhole, trying not to get his head blown off.
When my wife reads this, which she will, she’ll say, “Oh please, what do you know? I do everything. If I don’t do it, who will?”
How about the kids? If they don’t, they’ll go hungry and get in trouble for being late and the next day they’ll hustle up. What’s the big deal? That’s what happens when my wife goes out of town. The girls know if they want something done they’ve got to do it themselves, because that man over there with his belly sticking out of his shirt (that’s me) isn’t worth asking.
They know if I make their lunch they’ll get to school and find what is technically a sandwich, but not the kind Mom makes. Mine have too much mayonnaise, or not enough mustard, or the wrong amount of cheese. The bread is weird, the way it was cut is even weirder, and why did he wrap it in newspaper?
The same can be said about breakfast, their hair, and the laundry. They know if they want it done right they have to do it themselves. Just like real people. We come into the kitchen in the morning like coworkers starting our day. We say quiet good mornings, make a corny joke, and go about our business. And if someone is late, so be it. Try harder tomorrow.
Not every move they make in the sixth grade will determine whether or not your child ends up living under a freeway overpass. The idea that these kids can make such big mistakes, at this age, as to put their future in jeopardy is insane. They aren’t capable of screwing up that much. That won’t happen until they’re older and start mixing vodka martinis with credit cards.
Another reality that we have to consider is just how long we are actually going to live together. They won’t be living here forever, so why all the tension? Let’s stop all the yelling and make the experience as enjoyable as we can. Truth be told, life will do a better job of disciplining them than we can. Trust me, if they show up late to school, dressed as Batman, with no pants on, they’re going to hear about it. We discipline them enough; let’s at least have a nice morning.
They won’t be perfect, no one is. So if they’re pouring chocolate syrup on their oatmeal, and spilling it on their sequined cape, that’s okay. The day is just getting started. Just sip your coffee and let them be. And if they do something that really makes you mad, save it up and let them have it at dinner.