The Morning Duty Spouse

This is another from my parenting archives, written in 2003. At the time, the kids did not go to school until later in the morning. Now, Emma and Kate get up before dawn. Jill, who still leaves early for work, now picks up the majority of the “morning duty” part (bless her) while I do a lot of the late night pick up. 

The moral of this update: Busy children = L-o-n-g days. But as you will see, this has always been the case.

When you are blessed with three smart, inquisitive and articulate pre-school and kindergarten children, mornings are like a presidential press conference:

“Yes, Pop Tarts are OK.”

“Middle Eastern policy? Can’t talk about that right now.”

“Milk? That’s too heavy to pour, I’ll do it.”

“New Hampshire primary? Can’t go there yet.”

“Socks. Your mother put them out last night.”

Like many couples with young kids, my wife and I both work. An early riser, she leaves around 7:15 for the office and picks up the kids in the afternoon. I’m the morning duty spouse, more often than not the greatest challenge I face all day.

What this means is I have the onerous task of getting Katharine, Emma, and Benjamin — ages 6, 5, and 5, respectively — out of the house and onto school so I can get to the train station in time to catch the 8:30 Virginia Rail Express. For me, “No Child Left Behind” means a daily head count in the van.

7 a.m.: The Wake-Up Call

Come 6:15 on a weekend morning, they’re internally caffeinated, dressed, brushed and ready to start banging on doors at the surrounding houses, just because it’s light outside. That’s made us real popular in the neighborhood.

But Monday through Friday, no matter how much sleep they’ve had, I get the same refrain:

“I’m tired…” Stretch. Yawn.

“Just a few more minutes…” Yawn. Stretch.

“Daddeeee…” On a good day, it’s four syllables.

And then, as if the opening bell has sounded, they’re up and running. Doors open and close. They kiss Mommy goodbye. Faucets turn on, then partially off, always leaving a drip. I listen for weather and traffic on the 8s, fearful of facing Beltway traffic if I miss the VRE.

7:22 a.m.: The Breakfast

The cereal is out. Cheerios surround the bowl, some soggy, some still dry. Milk dribbles onto the floor. It’s no wonder that walking through our kitchen is akin to tiptoeing barefoot to the middle row seat in a movie theater.

Television is verboten during the week, in large part because my wife and I feel guilty about being able to quote entire episodes of “The Brady Bunch,” “Partridge Family,” and “Gilligan’s Island” from memory. But without the tube for company, we have to talk, and so the conversations and questions begin.

Topics for discussion include:

• What does a specific bodily sound really mean?

• Why does the cereal box always have only one toy and not three?

• The inevitable weather question: Why is it raining again today?

We rarely discuss painting, unless it’s the picture on our refrigerator. We don’t talk politics, unless you include the intricacies of sibling rivalry. Our conversations about literature and art consist of Barbie books, the latest plastic “Bot,” and “Finding Nemo.”

It’s a decidedly upper middle class existence, and my wife and I constantly convey to our kids how lucky they -- and we -- are. We try to teach them manners, to subtly convey that it’s not OK to jam your mouth full of Pop Tart and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes I survive. Sometimes I think longingly of the 10-hour day ahead at work, knowing it will be my only chance to rest.

7:51: The checklist

Often, our most difficult transition is going from the eating breakfast-brushing teeth- combing hair stage to the getting buckled up in the van stage. Our well-intentioned and informative breakfast conversations end with the intrusion of the day-to-day reality of life, the checklist we face every morning.

“Book bag? Check…”

“Hair combed? Check…”

“Coffee spilled on tie? Check…”

“Teeth brushed? Check…”

“Three kids still? Check.”

My 5-year-old son hides contraband toys in his pockets to show to school friends. That is, unless he’s trying to ride his two-wheel bicycle — a source of pride — down the street and around the block “just one time.”

Ben’s twin, Emma, tries to decide which pair of the aforementioned socks to wear. My oldest daughter, Katharine, dashes across the street to see about a neighbor’s aging -- and infinitely patient -- dog.

So many distractions, so little time. And it’s ticking away.

8:16: A fond farewell

Time has become a recurring theme for my wife and me, especially as we delve deeply into this most challenging period as adults, spouses, and parents. It’s difficult to remember a day when we weren’t held captive by time.

Pre-school and elementary school children are not similarly encumbered. They wake up when the sun wakes up, and they go to sleep when the sun goes to sleep. Time management is not a factor. The passing of time is not either.

That will come soon enough, I think as I kiss them goodbye, the van idling. And it’s a thought I have daily as I rush to catch the train.