Dear Paige and Isaac,
I've been your mom for 8 and 5 years, respectively, and in all that time I don't think you've once gotten into the fucking car without a fight.
With the exception of catching a plane to Disney Land last March (at which time you were ready to leave four hours early on zero sleep), not once has it ever been anything but a Herculean, uphill battle to get you out of the house each and every goddamn fucking morning.
Everyone says kids need "routines" to feel safe and secure, but frankly routine is what I need to feel safe and secure. And that routine needs to be set by me, not you. Because neither of you appears to give one single solitary fuck if we are late to work and school every single day of our lives.
Every morning it's the same thing--only six basic tasks are required of you: (1) Wake up from your warm and cozy beds; (2) Get dressed after choosing from among the 200 outfits your grandmother bought for you from Gap Kids; (3) Eat a made-to-order breakfast prepared for you by your doting servant-father; (4) Brush your teeth with fresh clean water and sparkly bubblegum toothpaste; (5) Don your expensive rain gear, backpacks, and boots/sneakers; and (6) Get in the fucking car and buckle up.
And yet these six things are invariably confounded by six OTHER things you choose to do first/instead: (1) Fight with each other; (2) Refuse to brush your teeth; (3) Make clothes for your Barbies; (4) Throw a ball in the house repeatedly and over parental objection until something made out of glass breaks and everyone starts yelling and crying; (5) Take 25 minutes to put on one sock; and (6) Fight with each other some more.
I can't emphasize this enough: for the love of God, and for the sake of both your parents' sanity and sanctity of domestic harmony: please just get in the fucking car.
Let me say it again, this time more clearly and with feeling so you're sure to hear me: GETINTHECARGETINTHECARGETINTHECARGETINTHEFUCKINGCARNOW.