If only my mornings were like this:
But, alas, they are more like this:
This morning, I did my usual, telling the kids that if they put their shoes on, they could have 10 extra minutes to play. Then I tell them, fifteen or so minutes before it's really time to leave, that it's time to leave.
Coen, playing with his legos, said, "Just a minute, Mommy. I'm just finishing something." And kept playing with his legos.
Lucy followed suit at the table, laying out her barrettes and headbands, trying to decide which to don. A few minutes later, I patiently and nicely said, "Okay guys. It's time to go."
"Just one more minute Mommy." said Coen again.
Lucy tried to draw me into a game. "Mommy." she said authoritatively. "I'm the shopkeeper. You can buy any of these barrettes."
"Honey." I said. "We have to go, but would you like to leave that there so we can play later?"
Lucy sighed. "I just wanted to sell you one thing!"
Finally they both got their coats on and as we were about to walk out the door, Coen said, "Oh! I forgot my books!" and ran upstairs.
After waiting very patiently for three full minutes I called up the stairs, "Coen, let's go!" in a very singsongy voice.
He made some sort of animalistic wail and I heard what could only have been him flouncing on the ground in frustration. He came down with his books. We went outside. As Lucy and I were getting into the car, Coen started hitting baseballs in the yard. I went back out of the garage. "Coen. We're going to be late. It's time to go."
Finally both kids were in the car and we were pulling out of the garage. As we rolled down the alleyway, Coen sighed. And said, "Mom...why do you always rush us?"