This morning as we waited on one of our four culprits who keep dragging their feet in the morning, taking us to the wire of the tardy bell and stressing their mother out, I dug in my heels – determined to stick to my guns.

Why I care I just don’t know. I’m not the one ripe for detention due to post-bell arrival. But I do. I keep telling myself, “Jody said to disengage… disengage … disengage… I’m not a yoga person, but I can certainly see myself chanting the words as I prepare my mind for the assault. Maybe if I picture myself on a beach, with the sound of waves rhythmically hitting the shore soothing my escalating frustration, it might be better. Okay, enough of that.

Our new morning regiment is centered on 3 B’s. Bed (as in making), Breakfast (because someone has decided he doesn’t need to eat) and Bible. We’ve always read it together in the morning before school. But sometime over the last year, I’ve let required attendance slip. I started the reading time several years ago when reading The Hiding Place. I was convicted by Corrie Ten Boom’s father and his insistence on family Scripture time – not a book, but the Bible. She credited this as one of the keys to her surviving the Nazzi prison camps. We may not be in Hitler’s path of destruction, but many a day I can feel the SS breathing down my neck, trying to break me. They’re just in the form of relentless teenage verbal assault. Yes, we’re definitely in need of morning Scripture.

So. new mom tactic: The car isn’t leaving our house unless all of the kids have attended to their 3 B’s.

Today, a tardy bell was destined for one foot-dragging, individual who seems to think his way is better. He also thinks I just might cave on my Sharpee-black line in the sand. Well, little does he know… I’m not budging. My stomach might be in knots (again… why?!!) over the potential detention, but I’m sticking to my guns.

The three perched at our table, ready to go begged for me to read so they could get into the car.

“Please, Mom. We’re going to be late.”

“I’ll take you first. You  won’t be late, he will.” I reply.

“But Mom.”

“Listen – He’s made his bed, so he’ll have to lie in it.”

Another pipes in, “I made my bed.”

“Me too” nervously assures another one.

“No – that’s not what I mean. It’s a saying,” I try to explain. Then I put it to song – because I’m weird – because my destiny is to embarrass all those around me – especially myself. “I’m just tryin’ to say – You make your bed every day – But when you don’t … You have to lie in it.”

(American Idol – Here I come! Reconsider extending the age cut-off to mid-forties … seriously!)


Blank stares.


“It’s a saying about consequences,” I try to explain. “When you do something, it’s like making your bed. The way you make it will dictate the consequence.”


Stares at each other. Maybe an eye-roll and a “there-she-goes-again” nod.


“Get it?” I implore.

“Like I said,” one replies, “I made my bed.”

“Me, too.” piped in another.

The third placed a cherry on top, “You’re weird Mom.”


She’s right. Weird … but determined.

Thanks for walking the road with m.


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