Each morning as the alarm goes off, my mind floods with a seemingly endless to-do list for the day. A healthy portion of the list is work-related — set up photo shoots for the magazine, return the calls of all the PR flacks (sorry guys) from the previous day, find constructive assignments for three interns, work out next month's reporters schedule, figure out if we'll be digging for or shoveling out the day's news.

Then it hits me. I've got a mountain to climb before I can even get to any of those things. As independent as I think my nearly 8-year-old and 10-year-old should be at this point, it takes an inordinate amount of time to get them moving from one task to another in what seems like ought to be an easy routine.

It seems like every request — like "brush your teeth" — devolves into yelling. That's after the broken record routine. "Brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth, brush your teeth.

"Seriously, brush your teeth, please."

It never fails that five minutes to go before the bus pulls up, I'm screaming my head off, hurling insults.

"For real, you can only find one shoe?!"

"What do you mean you decided you want to bring instead of buy lunch?!"

"You guys have the worst time perception of anyone I know!"

Not constructive, I know.

We dash out the door with the bus pulling up and they run to the end of the driveway and disappear up the bus steps. I'm left alone, standing there in the driveway, feeling empty, tears welling. I take a deep breath and turn to go inside. I've scaled the morning mountain. All the other stuff that lies ahead should be cake in comparison.