"Mom, I apologize in advance for tomorrow morning."

My fifth grader, already aware that his homework was going way later into the night than I like, was preparing for Wednesday morning here, which we like to refer to as "Screamy Insane Mommy Losing it with Three Mollassas-ass Whiners-Day."

Wednesdays are when they transition to Dad's house, and we run around gathering the extra stuff they need while they're gone two nights: Nintendo chargers, cleats, blankies, Fluffy I and Fluffy II, books to show Daddy how reading is coming along, homework, Tooth Fairy Money, and candy stash. It always adds that extra topping of tension to an already droopy Hump Day. Why Hump Day? That's for optimists. It's more like Slump Day, the third day in a row you've had to get up early after three nights of homework and six-hour days of staring at Miss Cram Knowledge Down Your Throat. In short, the wheels come off the cart on Wednesdays.

Fortunately, my ten-year-old woke up late and in a foul mood, complaining about being tiiired and not having enough Snuggle Time. He only read until ten p.m., so why was I looking at him like that? When he's that grouchy, he and his brother don't spend time playing and giggling and yanking down the other's boxers while trying to get dressed. Everyone else got dressed in relative, if passive, peace. As long as I knelt there and handed shorts, shirts, jeans, sweaters, socks, and shoes to each child in turn, they put them on. Amazing! I even laced up hi-tops under the kitchen table. So I had to crawl a lot, what mom doesn't?

In the car, I thanked everyone for getting ready and having a peaceful morning. "Except for me," my oldest said.

"True, but the others brought the average up and we're doing great. Might even be on time." And then I turned the corner and stopped at the end of a line of about fifty SUVs waiting to go through that last stop sign.

Logan said, "Why don't you try the other lane?"

I said, "Why don't I strap you to the hood first?"

"Why?"

"To absorb the impact."

"Why??"

"For giving me terrible advice." They snickered. "I should listen to you, with all your years of car-driving experience. Because riding a bike is exactly like maneuvering a two-ton block of metal through a school zone. That could kill people. Or you."

Dylan asked, "Well then why don't you just drive up on the sidewalk and take out the trees and the bushes and everyone walking to school and their pets and we'll say we didn't see them."

"Sure, we'll say it was a tornado that left the path of destruction. Better yet, we'll say that our car was dropped by the tornado and were able to minimize casualties with my awesome driving. Hey, that reminds me: this thing keeps going around the Internet about more people being killed by donkeys than plane crashes. Can you look that up for me? Isn't there a Guinness Book at school?"

"No way."

"Yeah way. People get kicked to death. Of course you have to wonder, what's wrong with these donkeys? Do they get too much caffeine? And why do people keep walking behind them? You're just asking for a kick.

The kids were rolling. Thank God they didn't know how much I sounded like Jerry Seinfeld. "And how dumb are these donkey owners? 'Oh, this one looks happy, should be okay to just scoot by—WHAP!' Or, 'I bet they're so grumpy they won't even notice me walking be—WHAP!' Didn't they learn anything from The Godfather? Keep your back to the wall, man! And if a made man climbs into the back seat, get out! It's never a good sign when Clemenza sits behind you in a car."

Everyone was grinning.

"Okay, here we are, it's 8:10 and you have plenty of time to get to class. It's Wednesday! Remember to get on the bus!"

"Duh, Mom," said Dylan, "don't you think I know to get on the bus?"

"Okay then, run along, just put one foot in front of the other, and breathe in and out, in and out…"

Dylan rolled his eyes and moved to close the door.

"And whatever you do, do NOT piss off any donk—SLAM!"