The Morning Announcements

Hi Friends,

Some of you may have thought the morning announcements ended with secondary school. In my house, we wake up to them. In the early morning, I hear my husband begin with a drawn-out sigh. He will again resume the role of chief announcer to the Hill household.

If I pretend to be asleep I find I can usually get a quick 30-minute nap before standing attention. But sometimes I sit up with my eyes closed so he can see from the doorway that I am almost to the stove. “It’s 7:12… everybody slept in!”

The chief announcer has the thankless duty of stating the time in 3-minute increments until all parties are either out of earshot or beat him by announcing it one minute earlier.

Interspersed in these time-tallies are the events of the day. Nine times out of ten, it’s someone’s Pajama Day or I’m short the dollar the Catholics charge to wear jeans. Sometimes we get to the dinner menu declaration, but if “We don’t have much money” precedes it, I just utter the word “omelets” into thin air.

“Breakfast is ready… 7:36!” (Hey! He took my line). “Come on girls, you have 5 minutes to eat!” Sure, we could have woken up earlier and avoided this, but I don’t like to cloud our mornings with logic.

As soon as I finish my toast I announce I’m going to the bathroom. If I time it out right, I can avoid announcing the forecast and convincing my kids it’s still winter...

Upstairs, someone is whistling into their toothbrush. Our toddler takes out her pigtails. I go sockless in my shoes and make sure there is enough fabric on my body so I won’t have to hide my face.

I vaguely recall the shapes of water bottles, mittens and a doll named Geraldine in the backseat of the car. I announce this as we walk outside to children who have foregone their hats. They announce they never needed them through shivers. But we have to go inside anyway, because “We forgot my snack!”

As we pass the calendar I’ve relocated to the back door, I quickly scan the dates to make sure it’s not a Saturday or Sunday. “It’s Thursday,” says the chief. “Thanks, I love you.”

It always seems so important to rush everyone to school, no one prepares you for that immediate ache you get when they’re finally there. Still… alone, at home I click my heels to the Keurig and silently smile.

HUGS,

Ashley