St. Patrick, St. James, or a Battleaxe?

Those of you, who know me, will probably agree that I have at least an average IQ and possess the ability to chew gum and walk at the same time.  Though I probably won’t be able to compete with the likes of Freud or Einstein in the mental Olympics when I’ve gone on to my great reward, I can hold my own.  I managed to marry a very smart and driven person.  She graduated with honors from high school, got a scholarship and earned her degree from a major college, here in the US and the University of London, School of Economics, abroad.  After working in her chosen career field for a while, she went back to school for an MBA. We have been blessed with three very bright children who have also done pretty well in school and in the other activities in which they participate.  In fact one has left the nest and is preparing for his upcoming nuptials.  They are very witty, quick with a come back, and believe service to others comes before personal gain.  So I think everyone will agree that we are not the equivalent of a car load of hicks, driving along the road with mouths agape, mesmerized by the bright lights and neon signs that populate the beach drive. 

After reviewing these traits and accomplishments, I am dumbfounded, profoundly stupefied, as to why our routine of getting dressed in the morning and preparing for work/school resembles the amalgamation of a prison riot, a feeding frenzy of bull sharks and a troupe of clowns trying their best to fit into a clown car.  Granted, no one who lives in today’s busy world seems to get enough sleep.  Parents bring home their work to add to their nightly routine, children have homework, chores, and extracurricular activities and everyone must catch up with their social media.  Though all of these line items seem to be completed, it makes for a slow start the next morning and puts everyone on edge.  Even though this is to be expected with such a hectic pace, when you live one ball game to the next, cramming the rest of your life in the intermission.  But what is it that can turn three very smart, selfless females, into fire breathing demons with the wrath and venomous behavior known only to the likes of Cujo, Godzilla, and Atilla the Hun?

I am six feet tall, weigh over 350 pounds, and I am not scared of any man who raises his voice to me in anger.  However, when it comes to the death shrills and screeching of the team assembled to make ready for the day in my home, Mary’s little lamb looks like a lion compared to the cowering piece of undercooked bacon that I become.  I find myself showering in less than two minutes, dressing myself completely only when I have hobbled and limped into the truck, and will come up with any excuse I can muster, not to have to reenter the bloodletting that is taking place only yards from where I am sitting.   

For people whose children attend schools with no uniforms, I raise my glass to you.  I don’t know how you do it.  Your children pick not only tops and bottoms to wear, but shoes, belts, purses for the girls (well, I say the girls) and numerous other accessories of various shades and compositions.   On the other hand, we must pick the one school approved white or blue shirt, the one school approved skirt, the school approved shoes and socks, and on the days we have Mass, the school approved neckwear and blazer.  This is pretty simple and I completely understand and agree with your unsympathetic groans, lacking the pity I woefully wish that you had for me.  Even with drawers that should be heaping over with a multiplicity of these vestments, wardrobe is the beginning of the morning fray.  The older daughter can find only one SP blouse and it has marker stains on it from some noble school project that was worthy of the trashing of the sleeves with ink.  The younger daughter, not wanting to have to walk all the way to the laundry room, digs in her closet to find the one non-recycled skort from three years ago that was too tight back then.  Not to mention their mother, who in her morning-time mind knows exactly what she will wear---that one outfit and nothing else; believing she knows where each and every piece is resting, only to be surprised to find it never made it out of the dirty clothes hamper.

If and when we make it past the clothing debacle, and I stress the word “if,” we are then confronted by the battlefield, which is the kitchen.  Many have lost their lives when fighting in much lesser battles than this.  Prompted by palates that are as eclectic and as odd as a work by Andy Worhol, breakfast cereals and sausage biscuits are foreign to the morning menu of these sweet angels.  Instead, they opt for things like leftover Kung Pao chicken, hummus with sliced vegetables, or even that one specific brand and flavor of protein bar with a Red Bull (knowing we haven’t had either in the pantry since the July 4^th weekend).  And so as to add insult to injury, and in the same manner as eaglets with mouths open in a mountaintop nest, waiting to be fed by the majestic eagle, our girls must have help from their mother to make their lunches.  This from the two who will wake the house with pungent aromas of epicurean fare they have prepared on their own at midnight. 

So as you see us in the morning, Mom and Mary headed north to St. Patrick and Dad and Anna heading south to St. James; please understand if we don’t wave to you or make small talk.  It’s not because we don’t like you, it’s not because even subliminally we don’t see you, it is in fact due to our looking forward to getting our sweet babies dropped off at school, wishing we were in a much happier setting like a root canal or jury duty.