The Simpsons

We used to have these neighbors we called “The Simpsons”.  They yelled and screamed all the time. We knew every aspect of their lives mostly because they spoke very loudly about it in a thin-walled apartment building.  The beginning of the school year is a stressful time in our house because we’re transitioning out of our lazy, summer routine to a hurried, school year morning schedule.  My toddler never does this well. On morning was just such a morning. There were tears, pleadings, and even threats.

“We sound like the Simpsons,” my husband sighed wearily. As usual by “we”, he meant me.

But oh my god.

He’s right. We (I) do.

I sounded like this family I had always rolled my eyes at. I was YELLING at a TODDLER about TIME. Like he knew or game a crap that his mama was contractually obligated to be at work by 7:45am.

My husband’s offhand comment resonated with me. Since that morning, I’ve tried not to rush it. I attempt to wake up a half-hour earlier, though not always successfully, so I can drink my coffee and pack bags before Z. wakes up. I try to pack lunches the night before. (Oh how I hate packing lunches. I used to really like it.) I risk being late as I gently, but not forcefully, prod Z. along. This is hard. I hate being late. I do think though that a soft voice helps move along the morning. And I don’t sound like the Simpsons.

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