Hurry, hurry. Pack, pack, pack. Quickstep, quickstep. Rush, rush, rush. Pivot. Box step. Grab the lunch. Kick. Heel turn. Hop the dog … EEEK!!!!
Dog!?! Did anyone walk the dog?
GASP!
Start again … Hurry, hurry …
And that’s how you do the back to school ballroom dance.
Do you do it, too? Maybe your house is trying this fancy new routine each morning now that school has started up again. Trying to master, or re-master, the jig after a summer hiatus. Regain the rhythm. Re-find the pace. Re-adjust to the intricate timing.
It’s enough to throw a hip out.
That’s been the story at our house as my daughter starts first grade. Summer, as short as it was, lulls you into a new dance — the lazy house slowstep. What’s the rush, man, there’s plenty of time. We have all morning. Am I still in my pajamas? What the heck, I’ll wear ‘em to work.
But then it comes. It comes like a tidal wave. No matter how you prepare. No matter how much you practice, there is no preparation for the storm. The real dance.
The routine takes a while to re-master, and I don’t have the steps down correctly yet. I’m fumbling about, trying to get ready. Wasting too much time on some things — “I think my coffee needs a half teaspoon more sugar” — and cutting corners on others — “7:50! I can only brush half my teeth again!”
Have you ever been in such a rush that you only brushed half your teeth? That’s when you know you’re really struggling.
All through summer, the clock was my friend, offering me up endless minutes for all manner of things. Need to finish the paper? Sure, take another 10 minutes. Boil some eggs? Why not? Go for it! You know what would be fun? Let’s smell the tin of cinnamon!
Now it seems I’m running on borrowed seconds. Fifteen seconds for a shave. GO! Twenty-two seconds to walk the dog. Tight, but I’m on it! Ten seconds for deodorant. Too expensive. Can’t afford it.
I can’t even keep what time we need to be there straight. I ask over and over again, “When time do we need to leave?”
The answer is always the same, usually with a slight variation on the end: “10 minutes ago,” I’m told and then, “10 minutes ago plus 5 minutes” and you get the picture.
All the clocks scream at us as we race about the house yelling things that no one can understand: “Did you put your vitamins in your underwear like I told you?” or “Who fed the carrots into the trashcan?”
Say again? No time. I’ll just do it.
The blur of bodies racing by makes me dizzy. “I thought we only had one child?” I ask my wife. “How come I keep seeing four!?!”
And just when I think we have it all under control — that we’ve made it … when we’re heading for the car, home free — a sweet, little voice rings out: “Hey mom? Dad? … I have to go to the bathroom!”
The bathroom!
You spent 30 minutes in the bathroom! What were you doing in there that whole time? Answer: She’s a kid! She was doing 6-year-old kid things, like having a conversation with the rock she picked up on the walk last night. You know, dad … come on!
“Seven seconds in the bathroom!” I scream. “ You have seven seconds!”
Mario Andretti never drove so fast. An escaped monkey in a stolen car never drove so bad. Red lights don’t pertain to us. Physics says particles moving at this speed can literally pass through other objects with no effect to either. Thank God for physics!
The kid gets to school, somehow on time. We’re exhausted from the dance. Spent. We know we’ll pick it up again. It will become routine again. We’ll get the steps. But those first few days are murder. Those first few days are just a busted-up, buffoon-like hustle. So get some sleep and get ready to do it all again tomorrow. Hurry, hurry …