Morning Routine

Getting out the door, confronting difficult truths and persevering

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Last night, I had a particularly pleasurable dream. I don’t recall the details, only that I was in the throes of great joy and release. My semi-conscious mind urged me to grab a notebook and jot down my thoughts, but sleep took over and lulled me back into a restful abyss.

But my piercing alarm clock wakes me abruptly at 6:30am, and I am very displeased. I need to go to bed earlier, I think to myself crankily. I lay in until 6:42am, having an internal debate with my semi-somnolent self about how much longer I can do so, knowing that I have to get my son Rohan to school on time and myself to the office.

After brushing my teeth and quickly washing my face, I amble to the kitchen and go into autopilot. Every weekday morning, it’s the same routine. I make my coffee and prepare Rohan’s breakfast and lunch. Most of the time, it’s a packet of instant oatmeal (I really need to get back into making oats from scratch on the stove like I used to, I think to myself) and an egg, which he currently likes fried. With a glass of orange juice. For lunch, he gets what he’s termed (for some unknown reason) as the “mousemeat” sandwich. It’s a creation invented by his dad and is essentially a sub or Italian roll with melted provolone, pesto, marinara sauce and sliced tomato. If it weren’t a relatively “fancy” preparation, I’d probably ask him to make it himself. But…if I’m being honest, I enjoy doing it, as much for its tangible manifestation of motherhood (the demands of which change every day) and the strangely meditative aspect of the making.

At some point, Rohan wakes up and starts playing on his Nintendo Switch. I don’t love letting him have screen time on weekday mornings, but ever since we started doing this a few months ago, getting ready for school in the morning has been so much more pleasant for both of us. Motherhood is also about doing what you have to do to get by, day in and day out. 

As he eats, I make myself breakfast tacos, which is my morning meal du jour. I scramble an egg and split it onto two small corn tortillas that I warm in the toaster oven. I top this with a bit of crumbled feta, some storebought pico de gallo and a dash of hot sauce. You can take the girl out of Texas but…, I think. It’s simple and delicious, and I scarf it down with an iced latte and a mandarin on the side. I love breakfast and never skip it. I’m too much of a hedonist to deny myself such earthly pleasures.

I then shower and dress quickly, pulling on burgundy pants and a black blouse. The sun is shining brightly through my balcony windows, and Alexa tells us that the temperature is already 52F. Surely spring is here for good, I tell myself, opting for the red trench coat from London Fog that I rediscovered recently in the back of my closet.

The season’s stronghold is confirmed as soon as we step outside. It’s mild, and the birds are chirping. I marvel at how there are new blooms every morning that weren’t present the day before. It’s one of the many wonders of spring, and it’s particularly glorious here in Washington. I tell Rohan that the peak bloom of the cherry blossoms is currently predicted for March 23-26. Wow that’s early, he muses. We’re both excited for it but we talk about climate change as we walk and agree that, in the grander scheme of things, the early bloom is cause for concern.

On our walk to school, we pass the Embassy of Israel. Every day since 25-year old Aaron Bushnell of the U.S. Air Force set himself on fire in front of the building a couple of weeks ago, eventually succumbing to his fatal wounds, there has been an increasing number of protestors, Palestinian flags and signs around the perimeter, which culminated in a mass demonstration last Saturday. There are piercing sirens that are projected from foghorns all around, so loud that they permeate the neighborhood, meant to approximate the daily soundtrack that’s the reality of the people of Gaza.

On some days, Rohan wants to walk directly in front of the embassy to survey the scene. I can’t bring myself to deny him, though I wince as he looks at the graphic photographs and discreetly survey his eyes as he takes in the posters. Israel Is Starving Gaza. Cartoon depictions of Bushnell’s act. Genocide Joe. A large U.S. Priority Mail slip, marked as ‘From’ The River ‘To’ The Sea. He has so many questions, has had so many questions. Why would we vote against a ceasefire? Is Joe Biden supporting a genocide? Why would they want to hurt kids and women, when they didn’t do anything wrong? Why did they take hostages?

Parenting is not for the faint of heart.

I try to answer his questions honestly, compassionately, sometimes even dispassionately. But I fear and suspect that at the tender age of 10, he’s already catching on to some unfortunate truths about human nature, things that I didn’t learn until later in life, that maybe I’m still learning. That there are no real answers to these questions, at least not ones that make sense. That we – neither the collective ‘we’ nor we as individuals - don’t always do the right thing. That we humans are capable of unspeakable acts of selfishness and cruelty.

And yet. And yet.

We preach the virtues of peace, tolerance, the golden rule and justice. How do we shepherd the development of these values – particularly in our children – when as a society, our everyday choices and acts run counter to them in such an evident and abhorrent manner? I don’t have the answer to this question, though I think about it constantly. Like so much about being a mother, I suspect that there is no right path.

After dropping Rohan at school, I make the 15-minute walk to the Metro station to commute to work. When I’m unhurried as is the case today, I treasure this part of the morning, especially on a beautiful day like this one. Deciding to take the longer route, I come across a particularly striking canopy of flowering dogwood, its blush pink petals forming a soft carpet on the sidewalk below. I instinctively reach for my phone in order to document the frame, though lately I’ve been chiding myself not to do that so often, to be more intentional about simply being in the moment.

But this morning, I can’t help it.

Maybe it’s because somewhere in my bones, stumbling upon this pathway feels like a sign. Of what, I’m not precisely sure. But it somehow seems like an assurance that for all the cruelty, there is beauty in this life too. That so much of being a mother – like being a person in general – is just about putting one foot in front of the other and doing one’s best. And maybe with our tiny individual bests and through our children or in the people and things we nurture, we are planting the seeds for an eventual renewal, someday.

Choosing to put my faith in this possibility, I take a deep breath and click the photo.