Deep drooling sleep shut off in an instant with the siren of the alarm clock. Turing it off I snuggle back into the pillow and think of taking the sleep I deserve, not the niggardly hours I was allotted.

Suddenly, like an electric shock I realize that a minute has passed and now I have one less minute to perform the tightly choreographed school morning routine. Whipping off the blankets I fly out of bed and throw on the clothes that wait on the upholstered chair next to the fireplace – the decorative spot designed for luxurious relaxation where nobody ever sits much less relaxes.

People pee. Dog pee. Cats fed. Dog fed. Coffee made. Little people awake. Dressed. Fed. Brushed. Packed. Helmets. Leashed.

At 6:45 a.m. in the quickly fading dawn the bike ride to school begins.

Screw the neighbors and their morning peace, the children race down the street screaming to one another about the game of chase that is already underway. Apparently the dog whose lead I deftly hold in my left hand while holding the bicycle handlebars with my right hand is some form of criminal or law enforcement who is chasing the children.

The dog, on the other hand, only watches the children out of the corner of one eye because she is now concerned with Bonaparte, the yappy King Charles Spaniel who races against a fence barking. Hopefully my low, purposeful voice doesn’t reflect my fear that the dog is going to bolt and throw me from the bike. “Focus. Keep your focus. Good girl. Stay with me, “ I want to beg, but force myself to chide.

Despite the day’s expected one hundred degree temperature the morning is relatively cool with the sun still tucked in the east, but somehow the scene completely changes by the time we arrive at 34th Street. The sun is out, the St. Andrew’s School parents have formed a long carpool line, and during the hectic part of the trip where we ride on a narrow street the dog slips her collar. Simultaneously, Baby G’s handlebars go loose and flip forward.

Crying child, dog loose in traffic and hobbled with a bicycle loaded with two backpacks and various dog accoutrements, traces of drugs from years past flood my blood and give me the calm resolve to lure the dog (who was wild only a week ago) back to my side, coax the first grader to figure out how to ride the broken bike the rest of the way to school and keep an eye on independent girl who has ridden ahead and is already forging the creek.

After drop-off the dog and I rest in the park while cursing the Queen of England who hated Princess Diana and therefore must have made the Diana flask I bought at Windsor Castle a leaky one. If the flask didn’t drip sticky raspberry vodka in my backpack it might still be in there and I might be drinking from it.