Lala, how the life goes on ...

I like my mornings to be easy -- Lionel-Ritchie-easy-like-Sunday morning, easy. I don't like racing at warp speed, adrenaline pumping, do-or-die mornings. If my anaerobic threshold enters zone 5 before 9am, we have a problem. Danger, Will Robinson.

This morning was smooth. Butter. Until, "MOM, WHERE'S MY BACKPACK!"

It was 8:33am. The bus arrived at 8:36am. It was raining so we were in the car. Madan had forgotten to grab his backpack. My brain went into overdrive. I kicked the Doobies to the curb. Literally.

"Take Kaila's hand. Go to the bus stop. GO GO GO! Wait there. Get on the bus. I'll catch up if I miss you."

The Doobies stared at me and blinked.

"GO! GO! GO!"

They ran away.

I used telepathy with one of the bus stop Dads. He looked at the frenzied mama in the car and said, "Don't worry, I got 'em."

And with that, I banged the fastest U-turn in the 'hood, screeched the tires and flew back home like Speed Racer on crack. The kids at the bus stop stood looking, in awe, or more likely, horror. I floored the gas. I prayed for the squirrels. One misstep and they'd be flatter than a pancake. There would be no stopping.

All the way, I kept chanting silently, "I think I can. I think I can." Because if I couldn't, I'd be stuck following that damn bus all the way to school.

I screeched to a halt in the driveway, bolted into the house, grabbed the blasted backpack, threw the SUV into reverse and drove like hell back to the bus stop. As I raced, a big yellow bus pulled up.

"I know I can. I know I can." I thought. Because if I can't, my morning schedule is hosed.

The Doobies witnessed their lunatic mama skid to a stop and park on the neighbor's lawn. I hurled myself out of the car and dove towards the kids, backpack in hand. I. Had. Done. It. My heart was beating out of my chest. I had broken a sweat.

"Oh, thanks. Bye, Mom." The bus lumbered away with the Doobies and their backpacks on it.

And that, my friends, typifies the life of a mama. You nearly kill yourself (and others) for your kids. You get little thanks, scant recognition, nary a shout-out, but you rest in the comfort knowing that because of your effort and actions, life hums along for the rest of the family. Lala, how the life goes on...

"Ob-la-di, ob-la-da" is now playing in my head.