rush hour (the daily routine)

kiss sleeping faces pressed into my ribs. (stowaways) shake them gently. whisper the time. prod them into the bathroom. zombies. i flip on the light. eyes/bodies wince. want to drag themselves back to covers and dreams. clap hands to enliven limp, swaying limbs. squeeze toothpaste from tubes onto bristles. hug cold body, kiss forehead. clap to recover son sleeping on toilet. wipe sleeping face with warm washcloth; clear crust from corners of sleepy eyes and mouths. come, come now. listen to whines and whimpers of not enough sleep and how her brother is looking at her. raise voice a bit. this is taking too long. remind them of time. they brush. i prepare clothes and overstuffed backpacks. return just in time to defuse angst about who's going faster. it's not a race. i clap twice. remind them to focus. stomps out of bathroom. put clothes on. "remember when we were..." he picks up his gameboy as he talks. focus sweetie. we gotta get outta here. he puts his game down, finds his socks. complains that they are too big. the sock bag is too big and full with orphans so we fold the sock to a perfect fit. by now, she is waiting on the steps like we are taking long. she waits with a snack for her brother and one for herself. i make whole wheat english muffins. half with butter only. half with butter and black raspberry jelly. our favorite. they share a cup of juice and we scramble for the door as i realize the time. we hug, kiss, wish each other a good day. my son combs his hair all the way across the street. (i will later look for the comb for at least a solid 7 minutes before i remember it in his school bag.) they wave a final goodbye. I kiss the wind and they disappear into the school.