Today is my birthday. The kids have been celebrating for the last few days by selecting random objects from around the house, handing them to me with a flourish and yelling, “Happy Birthday, Mom!” I want to applaud the sentiment but really it just means they’re getting out more stuff for me to put away. And I’m still trying to understand the thought process behind giving someone a plastic tomato for her birthday.

I decided we’d go out for Birthday Bagels this morning and since I’m the only one  around here at that hour who can drive — I took them out for my birthday (note to kids: if you are reading this in ten years, I hope you have stepped up and are now treating me. Moochers.) It took them exactly twelve minutes to go from watching cartoons in their underwear to dressed, brushed (teeth and hair), shod and in the car. For the last nine months I have been complaining about getting the kids out the door on time for school. They have no problem getting up. They get up at 6:30. Every. Single. Morning. But somehow in the ninety minutes between getting up and leaving, the wheels fall spectacularly off the bus and then run us over so that by the time we go I am pleading, threatening and employing every manner of trickery to get them to the car. What I was lacking, it seems, was the proper motivator. Bagels. If we’d spent the last year heading every morning to a Giant Bagel Emporium, this story would be a lot different.

I should have known food was the answer. It usually is.

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