The morning’s a jam around our kitchen

If you’re planning on dropping by our place unannounced, please wait until after noon. Mornings are not pretty. A case in point: One morning recently my husband was giving his pants a fast press, fast being a relative term because, as the son of a tailor, he takes his ironing very seriously. But Molly, sprung from her school uniform for the day, was getting antsy because she needed her outfit ironed as well. A day at school in civvies is a big deal. She’d been planning what to wear for some time and had been in a constant state of flux.

Having finally reached a firm last- minute decision, she wanted everything just right. As the minutes ticked by, her impatience mounted, until finally she snapped.

“ Dad! Don’t tell me you’re going to iron the other leg, too!” she pleaded, which prompted my poor husband to ask plaintively how anyone could ask him to face the world with only one leg pressed.

Responses to this story will, of course, vary. Those of you for whom organization comes naturally will speak of the importance of having clothes, lunches, permission forms and the rest ready the night before.

Pragmatists will argue for the purchase of a second iron. The rest of you, I suspect, will sympathize. The morning rush is the time children are most likely to announce they need $ 16.95 for a special workbook, or that the $ 17.25 required for a field trip cannot be paid by cheque and that the teacher has asked that it be all in quarters or that they are out of bus tickets or that they need to be at school half an hour early to take the test they missed when they had their doctor’s appointment, or that it’s silly hat day at school and does anyone have any idea where the beekeeper’s helmet bought for a silly hat day years ago might be.

Don’t deny you haven’t had similar mornings, because I’ve seen it in the eyes of too many parents as I drop our youngest off at school. There’s a harried, harassed look I recognize because I’ve lived it.

In our house, we can’t even blame a clash of early birds versus night owls. All six of us enjoy rolling over and grabbing an extra 15 minutes. What sets the tone, however, is that by the time the rest of us stumble downstairs, my husband’s been up for a good hour and a half, and, having digested several newspapers and the better part of a pot of coffee, he’s wide awake. And cheerful. And that’s where the trouble starts.

Directed to the wrong child on the wrong morning the question, “ Have you had breakfast yet?” is likely to result in a snarky response. Unbowed, Michael plows on, singing snippets of whatever song is currently big with the kids, which inevitably prompts someone to groan “ Daaaaaad!” Then he consults the notes he’s left himself on the top of the coffee maker, a spot he’s sure to remember to look, about who had asked for what the night before, offering the gentlest and most pleasant of reminders to an unreceptive audience.

In the meantime, I’ve hidden myself away in a quiet corner, hoping to enjoy a coffee and a fast glance at the headlines, which almost never happens as someone will come to find me to have a heart- to- heart about the

burning issue of the

day.

It’s a good thing we

live relatively close to

our children’s schools.

Every morning of our

lives, no matter how

much planning has gone into getting the day off to a smooth start, my husband will glance at the clock and say, “ I’m running late! C’mon guys, we’ve gotta go!” which leads to comments from the cheap seats as the first team heads out to the car.

I can usually hear them through the front door as they pile into the van, debating who has suffered the greatest injustices of the day.

Fortunately, all is usually forgiven by dinner.

At least until sunrise. The Minivan Years appears twice monthly. Catherine Mulroney is a Toronto journalist, author and mother of four. Email her at catherine_mulroney@hotmail.com.