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I live in 12-hour cycles. Seven AM and Seven PM are whistles going off in my head. The tenor and pace of the whole day flows from these two times. If the kids aren't downstairs by 7:30 AM to eat breakfast, they will arrive at school late. Sometimes late enough to see half their class marching off to Spanish while they're hanging up their coat. If five children are not upstairs by 7pm, then brushing, changing, book reading will go overtime. The lights will not be out by 8, and the necessary sleep evaporates. Make this a pattern, and by the fourth day, everyone's a bit kookoo.
That's why I'm the Cassandra, the militant, the witch on her broom. Deliverer of bad news such as, Time to wake up, Time to get dressed, Get dressed now, if you don't get dressed, we will take your clothes to school in a bag. And these: Time to go downstairs to breakfast. It's breakfast time now so you need to go downstairs. Didn't I ask you ten minutes ago to come to breakfast? No, you can't play the piano now, it's breakfast time. Put the guinea pig down and come to the table! IT'S 8 O'CLOCK, COME DOWN TO BREAKFAST NOW!
Aren't I supposed to be sipping my coffee and gazing out over five fresh faces eating cereal, all scrubbed and dressed for the day? As the sun rays dance over the steaming bowl of scrambled eggs, shouldn't we be overwhelmed with a gratitude that makes us break out in song?
Not at my house. Snakes are coming out of my hair, and if you look at me, I will turn you to stone.
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The highlight of my long summer with the kids was watching them surf. Unlikley as it may sound, it's a family sport. It can be a drag getting packed for the beach, hoping you remember everything, and mediating fights in the car as you sit in a long line of traffic. But then the kids burst out onto the sand, and they are beyond happy. Good small waves are powerful draw, and my 5 year-old can stay in the surf for 2 hours with his boogie board. We stand nearby, of course, so we end up tag-teaming to stay out with him.
Then we tried the real thing. Kids (who can swim) are up and surfing within an hour of a kid-friendly lesson. Their light weight and low center of gravity make balancing easy. Watching them 'get it' is joyful and thrilling. But I couldn't just do it vicariously. I had a lesson, too, and actually stood up and caught some rides. I guess that's all it takes, because now I'm hooked. How surfing fits into my crazy lifestyle I haven't figured out. I just know that when I'm on the water, it feels like I'm a world away. I have to remember this: bringing the kids to the beach is a great idea, in any season. Even if they fight over beach gear in the parking lot. 
The 7-year-olds groaned and whined as if I'd asked them to shave their heads or wear dresses. The misery I had inflicted by announcing that I had signed them up for private swim lessons was dramatically displayed via a general condemnation of me and my bright ideas. They refused to go. They vowed never to get in the water. They promised not to listen to the instructor, which by the way, better not be a man. It didn't seem to matter that their 9-year old sister was totally game for her own swim lessons. My husband was about to cave in. "I will only swim with daddy!" sang the woeful chorus. I was not about to back down, what with all my research and advance payment.
"You can't do this without even asking us first!!" triplet L bellowed. Well, it was true. I didn't want to have a big discussion about it two months ago because I feared the Opera of Complaints. I put on my best therapist voice. "You're right. Most of the time you get to choose the things you want to do. But sometimes mom and dad get to decide what you do, especially when we think it's important. We think learning how to swim well is really important, and yup, the three of you are going."
On the first day, our most stubborn 7-year-old sat on the side in protest. She would not enter the pool. She sat and watched her sisters. I guess it was all she could bear, because by the next day she was in. The (female) instructor was engaging and fun and the kids were managing strokes. If I remember correctly, that was the same afternoon they jumped around excitedly asking when they could go back for their next lesson.
Split personality syndrome? Depressive-manic episode? Trash-talk Mom Day? You tell me.
My daughter finally got a haircut. I don't think her change of mind had anything to do with me. When she was resisting, I tried to appeal to her with logic. (We have a haircut policy in our family: if it gets in your eyes, you must wear barrettes or get a trim.) She flatly refused. I tried bribes, like two balloons instead of one, and, how about a trip to the ice cream store when we're done? No way. Nobody was allowed to touch her hair. Since she does have sensory "issues" as they say, I let it go and ate that page of my family policy book. About a week later, she came to me to say that she had a hard time brushing her hair because of too many tangles, and that she would be willing to get her hair trimmed a little. I asked her how many inches. And she said one, but then changed it to a half. I've decided that haircuts are in a tricky category of control. More theirs than yours. You can't force your kid to eat, sleep, or be nice. And you need her buy-in to send pointy scissors her way.
More hair issues. This weekend I got certified as a mother of school-aged children. My son was sent home from kindergarten with "nits," which were handed to me in a ziploc bag as I left the school. The bag contained two strands of his hair, each shaft carrying an ever so tiny black dot. You have got to be kidding, I thought. There's no way I can find these things.
Luckily I had been preparing for this day, that is, when I wasn't dreading it. My girls happen to have a nit-picking expert for a school nurse, and she had sent home a training manual in the winter, with a nifty fine-toothed comb from Argentina (!) that would take away all the bugs without having to use chemicals or wash or vacuum. I was waiting for this day and finally it came. I found lice on everyone, including myself, but not my husband, triplet-J, or our au pair. Five cases total. Finding a live louse was kind of exciting and revolting all at once. First, it looked like a large freckle on my daughter's scalp. Then it looked like a tiny fruit fly caught under the hair. As I whisked the comb through, it picked up the dirty louse, and several more. As I examined the gray oval speck, which seemed to be vaguely moving, I was underwhelmed. I've waited all these years for YOU? After two comb-throughs with conditioner and a weekend wearing olive oil in our hair, we'll see what grade the school nurse gives me tomorrow.
The bitty creatures are harmless, after all. In third world countries people just live with them in their hair, they co-habituate.(Body lice is a different story) In our culture it is absolutely unheard of to be relaxed about lice.
To be fair, I got lovely Mother's Day gifts, too, such as leaf and flower "books", cards and drawings from my dear kidlets, who were remarkably compliant about sitting still for their combings. That was the best gift--being reminded how wonderful my children are.
I live in 12-hour cycles. Seven AM and Seven PM are whistles going off in my head. The tenor and pace of the whole day flows from these two times. If the kids aren't downstairs by 7:30 AM to eat breakfast, they will arrive at school late. Sometimes late enough to see half their class marching off to Spanish while they're hanging up their coat. If five children are not upstairs by 7pm, then brushing, changing, book reading will go overtime. The lights will not be out by 8, and the necessary sleep evaporates. Make this a pattern, and by the fourth day, everyone's a bit kookoo. 
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