Chasing the Children Is Proof of Real Love

My friends who aren’t parents--or those trendy late-starters who are only now at the diaper-and-cuddle stage--look at me funny when they hear what I call my hectic morning routine.

“Don’t call between 6 and 7:30 in the morning,” I tell them. “I’ll be busy chasing the children out of the house.”

It does sound kind of heartless, I suppose. But chasing children is a crucial part of mommying. Kids can make it into adulthood without apple pie--if it’s absolutely necessary, you can always heat up one of those Mrs. What’s-Her-Name frozen jobs to feed them. But if they don’t master the art of getting up and out the door on time, they’re going to have some trouble out there in the real world.

All the old black-and-white TV moms did it, usually before the opening credits were finished. Donna Reed, Harriet Nelson, June Cleaver--they all stood in the doorway smiling, fully dressed, immaculately coiffured, making sure everybody got a brown-bag lunch and a peck on the cheek as they ventured forth into the sunshine, leaving mom at home to bake and run the vacuum cleaner in her high heels and nylons. Mrs. Cleaver even came back in color a few years ago to chase her grown son and his children out the door in “Still the Beaver.”

And no wonder. Cruel as it may seem at times to those on the receiving end, child-chasing is as profound an expression of affection as the bedtime story and good night kiss we give them at the close of the day.

“There are many ways to say I love you,” Mister Rogers used to sing (I suppose he still does, somewhere, but in my house he’s been usurped by George Michael). “You’d better slap it into high gear or you’re going to miss the bus!” is a little longer and louder than those three little words, but the underlying message is the same.

These days our morning ritual begins at 6, when my 13-year-old son’s alarm clock begins emitting its irritating electronic beeps. Unless he missed the bus the day before, in which case it starts bleating at 5:45. On those nightmarish weeks when he has missed the bus 2 days in a row, he must set it for 5:30. So far we haven’t had to go as far as 5:15.

I usually give him about 10 minutes to get up on his own, partly because I want him to become self-reliant and partly because I want desperately to roll over and go back to sleep myself. Just in case I succeed, my own alarm is set for 6:15.

Then I drag myself into a somewhat vertical position and shuffle down the hall to his room, where I listen intently for some sign of movement from within. If I hear nothing--and I usually don’t--then despite all the signs warning any and all visitors (“That means you, too, Mom!!!”) to make an appointment, get written permission or at least KNOCK FIRST, I open the door unannounced. The rest of the time I am most respectful of his privacy, but he knows that if he hasn’t followed my rules by getting up on time, I won’t follow his.

“Are you up?” I ask, even though the answer to my question is obvious. He lifts his head from the pillow and mutters, “Yeah, yeah, sure, OK, I will.”

“Now,” I say sternly. “I’m turning on the light.”

“OK, OK,” he says. Often as not he adds, “Thank you,” and sometimes he even sounds as if he means it.

It is no coincidence that he is now the owner of the Oscar the Grouch talking alarm clock I once bought his father (now my ex-husband) in an only half-humorous attempt to help HIM get moving in the morning. Poor Oscar had long since talked himself out by the time he was passed from father to son, so now his function is only ornamental.

When I’m convinced my son is at least conscious, I slip outside and pick up the newspaper. By then it’s 6:30, and my 11-year-old daughter’s alarm has gone off.

She never needs prodding to get out of bed. Instead, she wants information. “What’s the weather?” she always asks, and I tell her the various forecasts. She needs to know it all, right down to the humidity and wind velocity, so she can make appropriate wardrobe and hair-style decisions. You may think those concerns are peculiar to preteen girls, but she’s been that way since she was 4.

In those days I didn’t just chase my children; I dragged them. Before I could go out the door to work, I had to do everything in triplicate: three faces to wash, three coats to zip or button, six shoes to tie or buckle. However frantic my mornings may get now, I must remind myself that the most difficult days are long past.

Like my old high school coach, I am now on the sidelines, gruffly barking out commands: Hurry! It’s 7:04! You won’t have time for breakfast unless you are completely dressed in exactly 1 minute!

Eventually, after a squabble or two at the bathroom door (“Well, I don’t see why you need privacy just to brush your teeth!” “Go use Mom’s bathroom if all you’re going to do is look in the mirror!”), they make their way into the kitchen, where I am NOT waiting with sunny-side-up eggs and bacon. Even if there were no such thing as cholesterol, I’m just not that kind of mom. I figure they know where to find the cereal.

They may not, however, know where to find their shoes, or their jackets, or that permission slip for the field trip that has to be turned in TODAY. If there are a few minutes to spare, I’ll stay out of the search, except to suggest places they might look. Only if we’re getting down to the wire will I crawl on the floor and turn the couch cushions upside down along with them.

Before they head out the door, I go through my list of obvious questions. “Do you have your lunch money? Are you sure? Do you need to bring your clarinet today? Did you pick up your math book that was on the table? Have you brushed your teeth?” I am not sitting in the kitchen and smiling at this point--if I were, nobody would hear me. I am running through the house close behind them, picking up dropped papers and stuffing them into book bags, straightening collars and otherwise tying up loose ends, although it has been years since I tied their shoes or zipped their zippers.

“Now!” I shout at 7:14, when my son has merely a minute to make it to the bus stop.

“I know, I know!” he says.

“I don’t care if you know. You’re late! Go! Go!”

And at 7:24, I’m doing the same thing with my daughter. Some mornings I feel like one of those guys on the military planes who shove paratroopers out the open door.

Those black-and-white TV moms had days when their kids missed the bus too, I know. But they had an option I don’t. I can’t fold my arms over my apron and say, “Well, you’ll just have to walk.” Not in Orange County, where nothing is within walking distance. Certainly not when the school is 5 miles away and on the other side of the freeway, not to mention other dangers.

So if they don’t make it, I take them. What choice do I have? Of course, they have to learn that there are consequences--for them, not just for me--if deadlines are missed. They’ll just have to learn that lesson some other way. Meanwhile, I keep chasing them every morning.

Sometimes the phone rings after they’re both out the door, interrupting my new-found silence.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” the caller--someone who obviously doesn’t know me well--will say.