Generally, I can tell the tone of the morning by the first sounds emitted from my child’s mouth after waking.

Now that all three of the girls have graduated to the big yellow school bus, it means no more trips to Florala before driving into Andalusia for work each morning; however, it now means getting up at 5:15 a.m. to catch the 6:40 a.m. bus.

Generally, I would wake each of them up at the same time – 6:15 a.m. on the dot, but that was before. Now, it’s 5:30 a.m. for them, which means there is a 15-minute coffee time for Mommy so that no one gets murdered before I have my caffeine.

Normally, the girls wake up in a good mood, but I could tell Monday night we were going to have problems. The middle one announced after supper that she wasn’t going to feel good when she woke up Tuesday. In fact, she would feel so bad, she said, that she wasn’t going to school Tuesday.

Sheesh. I ignored her.

The youngest was the first to rouse herself out of bed Tuesday. She was happy, and I was glad. A happy girl means a good morning and an on-time trip to the end of the drive to meet the bus.

The oldest got up and was no problem; that middle one, however, is such a snot.

I could tell the moment she remembered she was going to be “sick.” As soon as the memory crossed her brain, the words rolled out her mouth.

She set aside her half-eaten plate of pancakes and said, “I sick, Mommy. I got a headache. Here, feel my head. I got a fever.”

I knew before my palm touched her skin she was a big fat faker, but I humored her, hoping it would make the morning go a bit easier.

I was such a fool. That child can push my buttons quicker than any person on the planet.

Let’s just say the episode ended when I said something to the effect that if she didn’t go and brush her teeth, I was going to beat her until “Jesus comes back to Earth.”

I didn’t have to lay a finger on her, but by the time the bus came, I strongly considered going back to bed to rest.

It amazed me that we met the bus on time Tuesday, and what also amazes me is how completely different each child is, and in turn, each adult turns out to be.

The oldest is my academic; the youngest, my cheerleader. I’m not sure about the middle one yet.

She’s only in the first grade and got a note sent home on the third day of school because she didn’t want to do her sentences. So, I guess I’d say she’s going to be the death of me. It’s either that or she’s going to bring about the second coming of Jesus….because I know one day we’re going to have us a “come to Jesus meeting,” probably about her brushing her teeth first thing in the morning.