We’re in the home stretch. The awards ceremonies, choir and band concerts, and field days have come and gone. The seniors have graduated and finals are half over. Textbooks have been turned in and yearbooks have been passed out. Math club and chess club have met for the last time.

What’s left are a couple days of finals, completing projects, taking a last field trip, and cleaning classrooms.

It has been hell getting here.

Not the school work or activities. I’ve gotten good at ignoring the end of year hubbub and focusing on the essential. And during the year, there were a few assertive emails exchanged between my husband and my sons’ teachers and a mid-semester report for my older son that indicated serious lack of interest in school. Those issues get worked out with a little effort and attention.

No, I’m talking about something much more basic. I’m talking about the morning routine of getting ready for school. 

Two more days of waking the fifteen-year old from his overnight coma, placating the twelve-year old when he’s grumpy with chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast, and scrambling to get out of the house on time. Two more days of cooling my heels with the car in the driveway, my younger son egging me on to leave without the older one, and watching the drop dead time come and go. Two more days of cringing when my younger son beats me to car and totals up the “fine” that’s collected by those who are in the car on time from those who are not.  Each morning, as we leave our subdivision, my younger son reports how much he has earned that day by my older son’s and sometimes my own lateness.  It’s been a lesson in getting rich by being punctual.

In the last month, even the daily fines had not been enough to erase the morning torpor that descended over the Ross household. Forget about enough time for the minutes of Sonicare brushing mandated after the last dental checkup, to make a lunch of a tortilla, turkey slices and a Clif bar, or to fill up an empty Gatorade bottle with water. Decaying teeth, a school-bought meal, and the water fountain became tradeoffs that my sons easily made. It was a victory to have a change of underwear, a mean pee, and a bowl of Froot Loops before opening the car door and shoving a bulging backpack in first. The panting in the back seat was my cue to burn rubber.

The goal of being on time turned to the avoidance of being tardy.  Even a couple of days knowing we would be late didn’t turn things around. After school conversations weren’t of much help.

“Were you late today?”

Andy replied, with little regret: “Yeah.”

Casey answered, with a sly smile in his voice: “No, the teacher didn’t notice me coming in late.”

One day, we reached the pinnacle of laissez-faire school readiness. Or maybe it’s the valley. Andy, complaining of allergies, suggested staying home. Casey chimed in, sensing an opportunity for a mental health day. The rationale was that several hours of the day would be devoted to a school fundraiser, running around the track to collect on pledges. They wouldn’t miss much and part of the day would be devoted to school work. They promised to make up any missed assignment. I had just returned from a business trip the night before and could have easily spent another hour in my pajamas. It was a done deal except for who would call the attendance line.

“Dear, the boys want to stay home today. What do you think?”

Husband, who is dead to the world before morning coffee: “Sure.”

“Will you call the attendance line?”

“No, you have to call them.”

“Why me?”

“Because it’s your job to take the boys to school.  I pick them up.”

“Oh, fine. What should I say?”

“Tell the truth.”

“Oh, fine.”  I hated the simplicity of his words.

A quick call to the recorded line, with words of a 7th grader run down from allergies and a 9th grader needing a mental health day, and we were done.

Soon, very soon, the tyranny of the morning routine will be replaced by the peaceful slumber of teenagers, interrupted only by my husband’s grinding of coffee beans for his daily java sludge. I’ll have time for breakfast on the patio, serenaded by chirping birds. A quick scan of the paper, and then down the stairs to my home office. It will be bliss. Until August comes and another school year starts. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.