The Battle

Picture our home: 8:00am - Everyone (except my little man, who is sick on the couch) is dressed and ready with bows in their hair and a song in their heart.  Well, almost everyone.


One little dear, is still in her pajamas.  Due to the 3rd grade classroom in 1/2 hour.  Surly-Faced. And. Not. Going. To. Move.  


Oh, dear.  


I had my willing and cheerful daughter go pick clothes out for this pajama clad dear.  When they were presented to her, she promptly went and picked out her OWN choice of clothes and put them on.  OK, not nice... but at least we were moving in the right direction.


I checked the time.  If we RAN out the door now, we would make it just in time.


My son, sick on the couch with a headache and sore throat watches the battle as it heats up between my 3rd grade little darlin' and myself.  He's watching closely - knowing his mom always wins... and also probably wondering "how" I might come out the victor in this situation.


I was wondering myself.  A quick prayer for wisdom, and I quickly ushered the other four out to the van.  It was important to at least create the appearance that I was in charge...


Her hair in knots, and standing "out to here" from her head, she sits... sulking in the rocking chair - and announces she "will not" be putting on those shoes.


She may not - but I CAN!  I gently take Cinderella's foot in my hand and put her foot into the boots, all the while reminding my darling that it looks like she's having a bumpy morning, and that I do care, ever so much for her... but that it is important to get to school on time each day.


She bursts into tears and kicks off her boots.


A quick glance at the clock tells me that we'll be at least 15 minutes late.  Well, that's not so bad... We'll be "fashionably" late to school.


I inform our little battler that we WILL be going to school now.  Would she like to walk to the car WITH, or WITHOUT shoes?  She chooses without.


All goes well until she chooses not to walk any further.  Taking her coat off and tossing it on the sidewalk, she snuggles her toes into her coat.  Mental Note: Wash Coat.


Well now... what to do?  An audience of four is 10 feet away in the van.  I can't pull her into the car (you might be able to lead a HORSE to water, but....)


And so I did what any other self assured mother would do in this case.  


I picked her up like a bride going over a threshold... and carried her to the van.


Mom = 1
Surly Child = 0


My victory was short lived.  The seat belt I had put on my little darlin' had been removed.  Out of the van I slid, until I reached the giant door on the side.  Slinging it open I quickly (we were SO late now) explained to her that seatbelts  were the law, and if I needed to dial 911 for a policeman to come explain the law to her, we could. (Can you even imagine, girls?  "911 what is your emergency?"  Me: "Um. Well. My foster daughter won't get buckled."  Oh, the humbling we receive when we choose to foster broken children!)  


Luckily, the seatbelt was re-fastened.


Mom = 2
Surly Child = 0


Ah - Hah! Now we're talking.  I had some momentum going and I was going to use it!


We got to school, now 1/2 hour late, and from from the backseat come the words "I'm not going to get out of the car".


"No problem!" I interject.  "We are now at school, where I am no longer the one in charge.  I will just run in to the Principal's office and have her come extract you from the van.


Boots fly onto feet, and the crazy-haired child is now standing on the curb.  


Mom = 3
Surly Child = 0


After obtaining their tardy passes, two children head off to class.  One is much happier than the other.  


I explain my morning (and my wet hair appearance) to the secretary who has a good laugh over my story, pats me on the back and sends me on my way.


Oh my.  I'm SO tired and it's only 9:07am.  This is definitely going to be a baking morning.  Yes, this day has "baking therapy" written all over it. 


I've got to run... my oven has now preheated.