Ugh, quiet life, giving me no content.

This is a trip back to when Kid was six.

A small story:

Don’t want to alarm anyone, but it’s possible that there is a tear in the time-space continuum in my house.

Every morning, I awaken Kid with plenty of time to get her fed, dressed and out the door. But at some point along the way every morning, something happens.

We go from "I will get her to school on time" to "I will get her to school on time if I break several laws."

I've tried getting her up earlier.

I've tried having her eat in the car.

I've tried sending her to school in the t-shirt and leggings in which she slept.

It doesn’t matter. At some point, I will be standing by the car screaming like a fishwife, “Get in the car NOW; we’ll brush the back of your hair tomorrow!”

Let’s take this morning as an example.

Please.

Take it.

I'm a lunatic about punctuality; sometimes, I wake up at 3am and consider lateness of decades past. The shame of being taken aside by Kid’s teacher with a whispered “Perhaps you have forgotten what time school starts…"

Unbearable.

Ergo, an hour before we have to leave, I wake up Kid. She is a small child, so there isn’t much to dress or feed. An hour should be an embarrassment of riches. We spent ten minutes in her bedroom where we both worked assiduously at our own personal goals.

I wished to see her upright and heading towards the kitchen.

Kid wished to put a tiara on the cat and discuss a dream she had where all the kittens in the world lived in her bedroom.

Lulabelle the cat wished to not be wearing formal jewelry in the daytime.

Lu shook off the jewelry and made a break for the kitchen, which meant we all headed towards the kitchen. I headed smartly towards the table, where Kid’s breakfast was waiting, and Kid headed towards the laundry room, to do her morning chore, which is to feed the pets.

I heard the food being scooped out, but I did not hear small feet padding towards me. I went into the laundry room, where Kid was rapt, watching the cat chew.

QUINN: What are you doing?

KID: She’s eating!

The clock in my head ticked, inexorably. I breathed.

QUINN: And it’s just as interesting as it was yesterday. Now it’s time for you to eat.

(I noticed the dog’s bowl was empty, and that the dog was gazing at me piteously)

QUINN: Did you feed the dog?

KID: Um, no.

Note to readers; Kid’s favoritism of cat is almost shocking. I have come to the conclusion that it’s because Lulabelle fits into more of Kid's doll clothing. It might also have something to do with the dog’s mystifying habit of eating Kid’s sticker books.

She fed the dog, and somehow we made it to the kitchen table. A quick glance at the clock told me that we had forty-five minutes to get out the door, which should have been plenty of time.

Physicists, take note: I suspect the kitchen table is where the worm-hole exists.

Kid ate a sliced apple, a piece of cheese. I watched her do this. She ate at a nice, regulation speed. She attempted to read a Calvin and Hobbes book left there, but was gently discouraged from that, as it slows down her eating. In short, this was, at most, a 15 minute activity.

Two slices of apple eaten; we had forty minutes before we had to leave.

Three slices of apple and half the cheese eaten; we had thirty-five minutes before we had to leave.

Four slices of apple eaten; WE HAVE TEN MINUTES BEFORE WE HAVE TO LEAVE.

What just happened? I saw no slowdown in eating; we did not leave the table to change the oil in the car, so how did we lose 25 minutes? Did we have some sort of alien visitation?

This was going to have to be left to the minds of CalTech to solve.

Kid’s hair resembled over-cooked spaghetti and she was still in her nightgown. I leapt from the table.

QUINN: Wow, we’ve got to get you dressed. Grab the rest of the apple for the car.

Daughter crumbled into tears.

I, already halfway into her bedroom, her hairbrush between my teeth and her socks in my hands, stopped.

QUINN: What. Is. It…?

Let's pretend that was said in a supportive tone.

Kid tearfully, and slowly, went to her backpack, inched out a sheet of lined paper.

She then dolefully waved it at me.

KID: I have to write a paragraph about a book I read.

I stared in horror. I glanced at my watch. We had nine minutes before we had to leave. I hurdled nimbly around the house, located a pencil, and handed it to her.

QUINN: Listen to me. You are going to write. I am going to dress you. Tonight, we are going to have another conversation about how much Mommy dislikes surprises.

In four minutes, I managed to dress her while she wrote.

Was the dressing my finest job? No, but all the major bits were covered. Was the printing her finest job? Probably not, but Kid proved to herself she can write while someone is tugging at her legs -- a useful skill should she pursue writing in any professional capacity.

I glanced at what she had written:

“I read a book last night.”

Five minutes before we had to leave. Her teeth were unbrushed, her hair was unbrushed; her book paragraph was a masterpiece of minimalism. I prioritized.

QUINN: Keep writing. I am going to brush your hair.

And didn’t that go well.

Kid likes a whisper-soft touch when it comes to brushing her hair. When I have 90 seconds to banish the worst of the snarls, I use what I would describe as a “Firm” touch.

Kid’s howls upset the bloodhound that lives three blocks away.

And here’s what I had to say to my sweet, wonderful child; the child I would never knowingly cause pain; the child I would, without hesitation, die for:

“OH, YOU'RE FINE, JUST KEEP WRITING!”

I wrestled the hair into a ponytail and looked at what she had written:

“I read a book last night. It was funny.”

Three and a half minutes. I barked “BATHROOM!” and chased her in there. We spent a tension-laden two minutes brushing, gargling and washing the larger clumps of breakfast from her face. Nothing was done well, but it least the school wouldn’t call Social Services.

90 seconds to go, we raced for the kitchen, where I handed her the lunchbox and backpack, and I flung lunchbox, backpack and Kid towards the front door as I went in frantic pursuit of my keys. A minute later, I found them in the 34th place I looked -

My hiking boot; Past Quinn, you SCAMP.

- I raced to the front door to find that Kid had removed nearly everything from her lunchbox and put it on the floor. She looked a little miffed.

KID: Could you please make me some pasta with Parmesan cheese? Carly likes that.

I couldn’t even contemplate where to start. So I chose to yell incoherently.

QUINN: WHY DID YOU TAKE EVERYTHING….PUT IT ALL…WHY SHOULD IT MATTER WHAT CARLY…WHERE IS YOUR HOMEWORK?

Kid remained calm and said, "I give Carly half of my pasta, and she gives me her pickles."

She then added, "Can I watch television?"

Kid has the cunning negotiating skills of a labor lawyer. She knows when I am near emotional collapse, and takes advantage of those moments to shoot for the moon, request-wise.

To her way of thinking, worst thing that’s going to happen is that I am going to yell and say no, and I’m already yelling; it’s possible that the first symptom of a complete nervous breakdown will be me turning on “Dragon Tales”, after which I will go drink schnapps in the tub.

QUINN: NO!

KID: No to television or no to pasta?

(Sound of popping brain cells coming from the region of my head)

QUINN: NO TO…NO! JUST…NO! WE’RE (Checking watch) OFFICIALLY LATE. GET YOUR HOMEWORK AND A HARDCOVER BOOK SO YOU CAN WRITE IN THE CAR AND LET’S GO!!!!

I grabbed the nearest hardcover book for her to write on and started us out the door. I then noticed the book was THE MONSTER AT OUR DOOR: The Global Threat Of Avian Flu.

(UPDATE FROM HERE IN 2020: Proof that I was listening to that band before it got cool)

I spun back into the house to find a book which wouldn’t cause Kid to sob and curl up into a fetal ball. The next book I found was THE BLACK DEATH IN VICTORIAN SAN FRANCISCO and then there was AN INTIMATE HISTORY OF THE BLACK DEATH.

(UPDATE FROM HERE IN 2020: I have been waiting for this my entire life)

I zoomed into the kitchen and grabbed a cutting board to use instead of a child-terrifying book. Carrying it like a baton, I sprinted the length of the house, grabbed Kid with my other hand, and made it to the car in less than ten seconds.

We lost another minute to the classic debate “Please let me unlock the car, fasten my own seat belt, and rummage around for that Gummy Bear I seem to recall seeing under the floor mat last week”. By this point, I'd stopped hearing her, and was just randomly shouting “NO!"

By driving just barely outside the legal definitions of “smiled in sweaty triumph at my wonderful, punctual, child, who was just putting the final exclamation point on her paragraph. Even with losing twenty-five minutes to the Time-Eating Gremlins, we had done it.

Tomorrow would be better.

Tomorrow, I’ll get her up fifteen minutes earlier.

Tomorrow, she will have done her homework the night before.

Tomorrow-

KID: Mom, I’m still wearing my bedroom slippers.

Tomorrow, her shoes won’t be shaped like rabbits.

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