We set out tomorrow’s clothes, run the dishwasher and make at least part of the lunches, which we tuck lovingly into patterned lunchboxes stacked neatly in the fridge. The children put on their pajamas, brush their teeth and are in bed at a reasonable hour, reading quietly, each in his or her own bed. Once everyone wakes up they put on the set-out clothes, brush their teeth and come down for breakfast, which is at least somewhat healthy. Waffles with peanut butter and bananas, for instance; yogurt with granola. We finish the lunches and pack them in backpacks - if we haven’t decided to opt for school lunch that day, always a delight to busy parents! - and fetch coats or sweatshirts. The kids put on their socks and shoes, which are easily accessible and clean. Nobody has food on their t-shirt. No one is screaming at us that we “never listen to them” when they are trying to explain who actually hit who. We set out to conquer our respective days, one parent by car with the 7th grader, and the other on foot with the younger two to enjoy a pleasant walk to the elementary school, which is just down the road.

That is what happened the first day back from spring break a few weeks ago, when my children all returned to five-days-a-week instruction after a year of cobbling together hybrid schedule details, which I felt unquestionably grateful to have, yet each child’s week was a little different and I would often arrive in the pickup line at day’s end not remembering which kid I was there to retrieve. Both of them? One of them? Was someone getting the third? Wait. What?

On that first day back I felt a surge of energy, contemplating being in the house alone for a few hours a day, able to work without interruption. Without a sudden someone kindly or aggressively requesting a snack, the former, of course, preferred, but both, it just so happens, quite disruptive.

On that first day back our morning routine was notably successful as we embraced the glory of a new phase!

On the second day - the second day - our morning routine had lost some of its sparkle. It had reverted back to a version of our actual morning routine.

The one where we haven’t laid out any clothes because the night before we were very tired, despite it only being 8:30 pm, but J and I wanted to get in bed early and watch “Westworld,” which I haven’t decided if I like for its philosophical take on the idea of consciousness, or hate for its frequent violence and weirdness, and often weird violence. And the truth is I’d always rather be watching “Schitt’s Creek.”

So, when we wake up the next morning, maybe there are clean clothes that the children like neatly folded in their drawers, or, as happens too frequently, there are not clean clothes that the children like available, especially one child who is still, after all these years, very particular about which soft pants fit just right. I try to be sensitive, but I also try to soothe myself with the reminder that one day he will likely have a life partner, and this will be their problem.

Nora, who has never been a morning person - not since birth - tries to remember and set an alarm the night before, note the “tries.” If she forgets and we have to wake her up, she treats us with the vitriol her morning brain believes we deserves, shouting “No,” and “Stop” and both words together in a run-on sentence that ends with her turning over in her bed and decidedly not getting up. If she remembers to set her alarm, which, it should be noted, J and I never remember to remind her to do, she is, at least, mad at the alarm, and we are spared.

She is the world’s most lovely child. But. Once she is up, whatever the means, she sits at the kitchen counter and glares at the family because mornings are UNFAIR. Gabe is playing piano, or playing with Legos or has pilfered the detached head of one of Aidy’s beloved LOL dolls and is building a cage for it, and Aidy is, naturally, screaming. She is wearing her robe, hair wild, asking for breakfast, and asking again, and again. Aidy eats more breakfast than anyone I know. I am throwing cereal boxes around the kitchen counter and hurtling frozen waffles into the toaster oven.

J and I sometimes start the day with quiet coffee in bed, which is wonderful, or coffee while getting things going for the day, which is fine, too. Wherever we have our morning coffee, though, someone is making a complex structure out of paper, cardboard and plastic beads at the dining room table and finishing it is an emergency. You might argue, in a friendly fashion - so as not to anger the artist - that, hey, getting to school on time is a more crucial emergency! But you would be wrong.

The lunches are made, occasionally including the dregs of a bag of tortilla chips as a “side” if I have not been to the store in awhile. I deliver my regular speech about how we need to get the lunches at least partially made the night before. I deliver my regular threat to Nora that this is the last day for real that I will help her make her lunch because she is old enough to do it herself. I have a lot of pre-prepared speeches about lunches, it seems.

Nora is coming alive a little, at last, but she is also staring at the wall and school starts in ten minutes. I cautiously suggest that this is not the best use of her time and she tells me that she KNOWS STOP TELLING ME I KNOW before she and J finally get in the car and are off. As I stare lovingly out the front door at the two of them, I wonder, if you know, then why do you do it?

In the lull between their departure and mine, to walk the little siblings down the road to their elementary school, I ensure I am presentable enough to leave the household, at least by post-pandemic standards, and off we go. This is when I breathe a sigh of relief as all of the minors are out of the house and will not return until this afternoon. Except, wait, they will because Gabe forgot his mask, and obviously, he only likes three masks, and will we find one in the area designated for masks? The area inside the coat closet I’ve carefully curated with hooks, despite the fact that I get almost no reward for such organization and people like to leave masks, oh, in the garage, instead? We are pushing it on time but I don’t want to say we might be late because Aidy, the most carefree six-year-old I know, cares, in fact, very much about one thing, and it is not being late to anything wonderful and school, thank goodness, is solidly in that category. So, “hurry up,” I tell him gently, “we are…”

“ARE WE LATE?” yells Aidy and I tell her no, we are fine.

We are fine! He found a mask! We make our way, me with Aidy’s unicorn backpack and Gabe with his own. He tries to trip her and she shows him all her teeth as though, I don’t know? She might bite him? Then sprints ahead and does ten round-offs in a row, landing with her feet planted solidly side by side in the wet grass, hands above her heads like a baby Olympian. I am awed by her athletic prowess and her brother hates her inclination to show off, which is, let’s face it, exactly what this is. But we arrive at the school intact and happy and, also, fairly ready to part ways.

After saying hello to friends and the school staff - perpetually energetic, a perpetual inspiration over these nearly 14 months - I am on my way back. Alone, cheerfully plodding the sun-dappled straight-shot back to our quiet house, and convinced of one thing: tomorrow we will be more prepared.

I know, with a deep certainty, that most likely, we won’t. But we’ve got 24 hours to get there and, anyway, the potential is always the thing.