theblackdostoyevsky

Tell us about your morning routine.

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On weekdays, my alarm sounds at 5:20AM. I hit snooze before the song builds up and wakes my wife. At 5:30AM, I get out of bed and carry the clothes I wore to bed from the rocking chair to the bathroom. I sit on the pot and read today’s entry from My Utmost for His Highest. I sit until my body works out its waste. My legs go numb. I get up and get dressed as I leave the bedroom, click on the corner lamp and press the tab on the electric kettle. While the water heats up, I rinse out my mug in the sink and spoon in two heaps of instant coffee with a touch or Torani vanilla. It’s 5:50AM. Time to wake the children.

I’ve only got two in school, but all four sleep in two full-sized bunk beds, two to a mattress. As I wake the two for school, I pray the other two stay asleep. They usually don’t, but I keep myself in suspense by turning my back to the beds and fish through my son’s drawers in the dark for his school clothes. My oldest daughter chooses her own. Flashing my phone light into the drawers, I find what I need and, when I stand and turnaround, find out whether I’ve got one bowls of cereal to make or three. Let’s say it’s three today.

“Go to the potty.” And two go into the bathroom.

I take my son’s clothes into the den while his older sister waits for them to finish in the bathroom. I dress my coffee and take a sip. I change the youngest’s pull-up.

“Go throw this away and put these back.”

Then, I help my son dress himself, or I watch him dress himself then correct his errors.

“Go put your dirty clothes in the hamper. Hey. Then brush your teeth. Hey. Then wash your face. Do you understand?”

He nods.

“What did I just say?”

He leaves and my oldest comes in, fully dressed, and puts two egg bites in the air fryer. I pull two snack bags out of the pantry and set them on the counter. She refills her water bottle. One of the youngest begins to cry.

“Hush. Your mother is still asleep. Y’all want cereal? Get a spoon and go sit at the table.”

I pour three paper bowls of cereal, each with an increasing amount. I pour milk into the two bowls with the least and set all three on the table, pointing out to each of the youngest which is theirs. My son comes back in. “Did you brush your teeth?” He runs back to the bathroom. He comes back. “Get you backpack.” He runs to the credenza near the front door, then back. “Put your snack in your backpack.” When we finish this, I point to his cereal on the table. He sits down. I pour over the milk.

While they’re eating, I go into the office and take the Bible from the bookshelf, open it to where the sticky note is, and set the book open on my desk. I click on the floor lamp with the toe of my foot and leave the room. I fetch my coffee, a tall plastic cup, and a fresh bag of unsalted sunflower seeds, rip off the plastic enclosure and toss it in the trash, push the seed bag into the empty cup and take it and the coffee mug into the office and set them on the desk behind the Bible.

The air fryer beeps. The egg bites are finished. My oldest daughter shows me the work in her folder from the day before, while the others are eating. “You’ve got fifteen minutes. Eat your breakfast.”

“Can I read while I eat?”

“Always.”

The others chime in. “Can we read, too.”

“Of course.”

They sit at the table, eating cereal and picture-looking or reading in their book of choice. I retrieve my coffee, replace it in the office with a half-gallon water jug, sit at the dining table and wait for the appropriate time.

“Alright, get your backpacks. You two, put on Crocs.”

“Yay, Crocs!”

“Son, did you fill up your water bottle.”

“No.”

“Do it now.”

“Can you help me open it.”

“Bring it to me. Here.”

I open the garage door, praying the wagon isn’t in the trunk of the van.

“Daddy, can we get in the wagon?”

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

The two youngest get in the wagon. The two oldest walk. We stroll the block and a half to the bus stop. My son paces the group. My oldest hangs back talking to me about her hopes for the day. The youngest stand up at the bow of the wagon, pointing, like sailors who’ve spotted land. When we arrive at the bus stop, I sit on a ledge in the circle courtyard leading to the nature trail. The children begin to pool up, along with their parents, some on foot, some in cars, to wait on the bus. We play “What’s Your Favorite?” or charades, until the bus arrives. I hear the engine accelerating across the ravine.

“The bus is here.”

“No it’s not.”

“Where?”

I begin hugging and kissing my children.

“Give your sisters a hug and kiss.”

“I don’t see the bus.”

“There it is!”

The headlights flood the street. I can see the colors of the cars parked along the sides of the street and across the intersection. Car doors open and children start pouring out and running. Their parents limp out behind them as if they’d started to give chase and immediately gave up pursuit.

“I love you. Have a great day.”

“Okay. We will. Bye, Daddy!”

“Bye, Daddy!”

“Bye, Baby. Bye, Son. Y’all ready to go?”

Light blue light begins to bleed over the roofs and treetops. I push the wagon home.

End of Phase One.