Sweet. Shoeless. Surrender.

I have to laugh whenever anyone asks me how I manage to keep up with my two sons.  
The answer is:  I don't. 

Really. 
You have no idea.

Take this morning for instance. 
All I had to do was wake, feed and dress two boys, not to mention tangle with a sleeping teenager who opts to stay in bed whenever a school project is due.  Yet, anyone that could peer inside the clothing and food-strewn battlefield of my house this morning, could plainly see that I lost all battles on all fronts...again.

Seriously, the school morning task is a monumental one.  It gives me nightmares.  
Plus, I think I am developing panic-attacks as I find myself panting about halfway through the breakfast mantra of "eat your pancakes, eat your pancakes, eat your pancakes."  
I just do not understand how the once sane woman I used to be was ever able to timely present innumerable witnesses and exhibits for trial. Today, I can't even get my three kids out the door and halfway dressed in time for school in the morning.  
That said, I am glad for the one simple task of my chaotic mornings:  Getting boys dressed in school uniforms is a no-brainer. However, since today is the last day of school before their holiday break, I quickly scanned school e-mails to see whether I needed to pack and make lunches, ie., throw some cereal in a baggy. 

Instead I was dismayed to learn that Paul must be dressed in all-white clothing today for some goddamned holiday thing.  He is even expected to wear white shoes. 
WTF? 
What 8-year-old child owns white anything? 
Furthermore, does anyone even make white shoes since Pee Wee Herman paid due homage to such in Tequila? 

   

Uh, excuse my daydream.
Anyway, I read the next week-old email.  
This one directed me to dress my kindergartener in holiday attire.  And I was instructed to "be creative about it."  
As if there were any other choice.

See, I just moved across the country and have not unpacked any holiday stuff except for half of my nine pet holiday stockings. So I grabbed these and quickly stapled four and a half of the hairy and slightly chewed stockings to Ben's uniform shirt. 
Why? 
Because ripping off Christmas tree branches to weave a crown of pine thorns was too formidable a project for me. 

My poor kid. 
He looked like a Salvation Army ragamuffin. 

When Paul asked him what exactly he was dressed as, Ben looked down at his droopy staplings and sorrowfully said "I just don't know." 
I had to pump the little guy up and tell him he was dressed as...as...wonderful Christmas expectations? 

That was enough to get him in the car at least. 

So, you see, I do not keep up with my sons. 
Or myself for that matter. 

At any rate, I am now sitting in my car decompressing after the frenzied school drop-off.  Of interest, I am wearing no shoes in our 50-degree weather.  I am looking at the five forlorn teacher gifts that I forgot to throw in the boys' backpacks.  
Or backpack, I should say.  
I have an uneasy feeling that I left Ben's pack on top of the car as we lurched toward school, chanting another morning mantra:  "buckle-up, buckle-up, buckle up." 

Okay, time to take a deep breath and head home to make another attempt to rouse the comatose teenager....

On second thought, I am instead going out for a coffee.  Any other frazzled moms care to join me for a cup of joe? 
Shoes optional.