At the crack of dawn, each day, my son wakes me up.
Bribes of candy and money have not helped. Threats of picking him up from school while wearing a three-inch, black, leather mini-skirt have not worked.
My son wakes me up demanding that everyone's day begin when his does.
As I use the last of the coffee buzz to get him off to school, joining him in a song about the wheels on that bus and juggling the day's demands in my head, I wonder what the day will be like.
"Today is Wednesday, Mom," my son tells me.
And so it is.
