Morning School Bus Fail

Written by Anneliese King, aka @shittymommymoments

Mama of 3 boys, Co-founder of Noble Newborn, and Haver of Shitty Mom Fail Moments

“Shit get up” I whisper yell as I punch my sleeping husband in the ribs. I’m not sure exactly why I whisper yell, as this is not actually one of those moments that I want anyone in the house to not be disturbed. But old mom habits die hard, I guess.

It’s 8:19 am and we over slept. The bus will be here at approximately 8:27am, and my sensitive kindergartner is gonna be pissed when I start screaming at him for something that is entirely not his fault. Yeah, can you believe his audacity?

I jump out of bed and immediately bump my hip on the opened drawer of my night table. Oh right, I opened it last night when I was trying to find my husband some Advil.

“WAKE THE FUCK UP.” Still whisper yelling. Why can’t I speak more loudly? It’s like someone permanently turned the volume down on my voice after baby number 3. Unless, of course, I’m in a public place and am 3 seconds away from running into someone I know. Then I have absolutely no problem yelling at my kids to STFU. Okay I don’t actually say the F to them. I’m not THAT shitty. Yet.

I glance at myself in the mirror as I begin my quiet sprint down the hall. Why TF did I decide I wanted a mirror there? Who actually wants to look at themselves the moment they wake up??

You’re probably wondering why his missing the bus is even that big of a deal to begin with. “Why not just drive him?” You’re probably asking yourself. And I’ll tell you why. Because I am lazy AF. Do you know how annoying it is to get 3 kids into a mini van and then have to walk ALL 3 into the school office because GOD forbid you safely leave a child securely fastened into a locked and turned on car?

And like. It’s a SCHOOL. I can’t roll in looking the way I look. They will take one look at the postpartum bird’s nest that sits a top my head and literally rip those children from my arms directly into CPS. I look like I haven’t showered in 4 days. And it’s because I HAVEN’T. My lips are chapped AF. But not in a pale white flakey way. No no, in a dark, red wine kind of way. I look like I just downed an entire bottle of Cabernet. And I probably smell like it. Because that’s exactly what I did last night.

“Fuckkkk.”

“Will get dressed!!!!” I scream down the stairs. Cue baby scream-crying in the room next door. Well, at least I finally kicked the whisper yelling. I ignore the baby and continue down the steps.

“OKAY mom” he yells, after I yell it a second time, accentuating the “Kay.” You know what I’m talking about.

“Hurry, you’re going to miss the bus!”

And that’s when it all goes to shit. It’s an amateur mistake. After all, I’m a mother of 3. I KNOW better than this. And yet, here we are. Incase you’re new to this whole parenting thing, here’s a tip: You never, EVER tell a kid about what will happen if he doesn’t hurry. You might as well ask Elsa to freeze him into an ice statue, it would result in the same outcome. Paralysis.

Your child will completely forget his own name, let alone where his damn toothbrush is.

He’s actually moving slower than he was BEFORE I said hurry up. It’s painful to watch.

“Go brush your teeth and I’ll grab your clothes.” I say, ignoring the look of sheer panic on his face. He looks like he just saw a zombie. And I’d say it’s because that’s what I look like, but he’s 100% used to this hot mess minus the hot that is his mother since baby number 3 came along. It does not phase him anymore. At least, it shouldn’t.

Thankfully I find some clean clothes and, miraculously 2, albeit unmatched, socks in his size.

“Come on! Did you brush your teeth?”

“Oh I forgot!” He yells and I can hear him running towards the bathroom. How did he fucking forget? That’s the only thing I asked him to do? And he does it EVERY SINGLE FUCKING MORNING. I mean, I can’t really talk. I walk upstairs 9 times a day and forget why I’m up there. But he is SEVEN, and operating on a full, uninterrupted night’s sleep.

Finally he hurries down the steps. I’m guessing a dentist would not approve of that teeth brushing, but let’s just hope he doesn’t get too close to anyone.

“Here put these on,” I say as I throw his clothes at him. Thankfully his back pack is exactly where he left it by the front door, because I decided we would do homework in the morning. How naïve, to think I would actually allow for extra time to do homework in the morning. Who do I think I am?

He’s dressed.

“Shoes!” I say, no longer able to speak in complete sentences, apparently.

Where are they? I race around the house until I find them in the kitchen. It’s 8:26. This is NOT good. We live two houses away from the bus stop, so I have a clear shot to the stop sign from our front door. I throw the door open just in time to see the yellow bus coming up the hill. And I am sad to say that “shitty mommy” might be the only way to describe what happens next.

“We’re coming!” I yell, size G boobs filled with milk bouncing all over as I jump up and down on the front porch, flailing my arms in the air. I NEVER go without a bra. It’s too dangerous. These babies are not welcome in society.

“Run!” I yell at my child, who is frantically fighting with his back pack straps.

“Okay mom!” he shrieks back as the tears start to fall down his cheeks. The bus seems to be waiting, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or embarrassed that another human being is witnessing this complete mom fail moment.

“I love you!” I yell, as my sobbing child takes off down the front lawn towards the street. Thankfully no cars are around, as I am not sure his blurred vision due to the onslaught of tears caused by his mediocre mother would have allowed for him to see anything in his path. I stand there, consumed with guilt as I wave to my child. I can’t see him through the window, but I know his eyebrows have turned an angry shade of red by now.

Long story short the kid made it to the bus. And he came home in a good mood, with absolutely no mention of the horrific 9 minutes that was our morning. But I am sure he will 100% be telling this story in therapy in 20 years.