In times like these, everyone can use
A Cup of Comfort.
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A Cup of Comfort
A Cup of Comfort for
Friends
A Cup of Comfort for
Women
A Cup of Comfort for
Mothers & Daughters
A Cup of Comfort for
Inspiration
A Cup of Comfort for
Christmas
A Cup of Comfort for
Courage
A Cup of Comfort for
Teachers
The following story is excerpted from:
A Cup of Comfort for Mothers & Daughters
Stories that celebrate a very special bond
Time Out
I flung aside the covers and bolted upright, wide-eyed. "Wake up!" I shook Mike's shoulder gently, then harder. "We overslept!"
I raced to the girls' room, frantic and smelling of morning breath, pulled the two older ones out of the bunk bed and led them to the bathroom with their eyes closed. Trusting that they could walk through the morning routine in their sleep, I pulled open drawers and laid out their clothes, while the baby slept on in her crib. Then I sped down the hall, pulling open the bathroom door in transit. "Your clothes are on the bed! Dress fast; we're really late!"
"Can we have pancakes today, Mommy?"
"No! Daddy will butter some toast for you to take out the door. Hurry!"
I threw on a pair of yellow slacks and a matching T-shirt. Dress at the school where I taught was casual. Permanent press, great! No time for ironing. No time for a shower, either. I ran a brush through my hair and while I dashed on a little makeup, I listened to the girls in the next room.
"I hate these overalls."
"Me, too. I wish Mom didn't know how to sew."
"Me, too. I wanna wear a pretty dress."
"I wanna wear my orange T-shirt with the sparkles, and my jeans with the silver studs."
"Can you reach my pink dress?"
"Sure. Will you pull out my T-shirt? It's under your bed."
Ordinarily I would have intervened and ensured they wore appropriate and clean clothing, but under the circumstances I decided to prioritize and let it go. Five minutes later we convened at the front door. Mike handed out lunch boxes and toast to go, and we were off and running!
Sasha looked up at me as we left our building. "You look pretty, Mommy. I like yellow."
"Let's walk a little faster," I replied. What a sight we were—the harried, wild-eyed mom with a book bag slung over one shoulder, herding two tousled little girls who had forgotten to brush their hair, but were dressed to kill, one in sequins and studs and the other in ruffles. We navigated a long city block with commendable speed, darting around slower pedestrians and speaking as little as possible except for an occasional "hurry up." Amazingly, we were only a few minutes behind schedule. If we kept up a brisk pace, I thought, I'd be able to drop them at their elementary school in ten minutes and sprint to my own school in time to clock in at 8:30—with a little luck.
It didn't happen. As we approached the first intersection, the light changed and we had to stop. Now, if you've ever been in New York, you know that nobody actually waits for the pedestrian walk signal before crossing. Savvy pedestrians watch the opposite traffic signal and step off the curb when it turns yellow, look both ways, and start walking when it turns red. The pedestrian walk sign comes on when you're about halfway across. I stepped off the curb, looked left and right, and jumped back as a bus beat the light. Though I'd given myself plenty of room and was in no danger of losing my life or incurring bodily harm, I hadn't seen the mud puddle.
"Oh, no!" So much for the split-second timing that had gotten us out the door almost on time. I stared down at my slacks, splattered with dark mud spots from waist to cuffs, doing lightning calculations of how many minutes it would take to dash back home and change, weighing that against the pros and cons of just going to work as I was.
Suddenly, Sasha's head disappeared from my peripheral vision. I whirled around to see her sitting on the sidewalk, opening her lunch box, and I blew up. "You know we're running late, and you saw what just happened, and all you can think of is you want a snack! What's the matter with you?"
Her bottom lip quivered. Great, I thought. On top of everything else, she was going to start crying right here on the street.
Big brown eyes looked up at me and brimmed over. "I was just getting you a napkin so you could clean your pants."
My frustrations melted along with my heart as I knelt down to hug her. Suni put a comforting hand on my shoulder. Droves of commuters skirted around us, a little island in the rush-hour hustle, and when the light turned red again, we were still in a huddle.
"Mom . . . I have an idea." Suni usually did. Her ideas matched her favorite clothes—neon with lots of glitter. "Let's not go to school. Let's all call up and say we have a cold. Actually, I think I do, a little." She coughed. "And Sheila can stay home from the baby-sitter's . . . and Daddy can make us all pancakes."
"Blueberry!" That was Sasha's idea of heaven on earth.
"And then we could spread a blanket on the floor and play Chutes and Ladders." Suni was on a roll, and she knew it.
My priorities took a new turn, for the better, I think. What would I actually lose if I took a day off? And how much more would I gain? We threw our half-eaten cold toast in a trashcan and ran laughing hand-in-hand back to our building, conspirators in a grand plot. The blueberry pancakes were the best we'd ever had, and we played Chutes and Ladders until everybody won at least once.
The mud spots came out in the wash. Most bad things do; life is like that. I'm happy to say that, after being mentored by a sweet little girl sitting on the sidewalk getting a napkin out of her lunch box, my priorities remained firm: Punctuality is important, but not as important as your family.
One of my girls called me the other day. Married just one year, she and her husband had called in sick and spent the day together. They didn't play Chutes and Ladders, but from the sound of her voice, I gathered that whatever they'd done, they'd both won! She's going to be a good mother.
—Nancy Massand