Good morning. This week, I shared a video on Facebook about my morning routine (see below). It was a sped-up glimpse into our chaos. Monique commented that her family's mornings look quite different—and after reading her account, I agree. Just glancing at her wake-up time compared to mine, I have no room to complain. She's a true powerhouse!
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It's 06:00. The alarm buzzes. I silence it with a quick tap. The day begins, though my eyelids are still heavy. Every weekday follows a rigid morning schedule for my family: a daughter attending school in a nearby town and a son with severe physical disabilities heading to his specialized daycare.
I once joked about 'helicopter moms' shuttling kids to elite Dalton schools in other villages. Now, I'm living it. My 5.5-year-old daughter needed advanced education her local school couldn't provide, so she attends a Dalton school with a plus class tailored to her gifts. Coincidentally, it's in Baarn.
Karma, indeed. What can I say?
My 19-year-old son is profoundly physically disabled but fully cognitively aware—a nuance many miss, except at his Baarn daycare. Five days a week, I drive him there for a stimulating program with five peers and two dedicated supervisors.
Enough reflection. At 6:15 a.m., I shower while the kitchen timer triggers my coffee maker to grind fresh beans for a strong, black cup—the fuel I need most. Peering out the bathroom window, the neighbors' lights remain off.
By 06:45, I'm selecting outfits for my daughter and myself, dressing in the dim light. At 07:00, I enter the living room with her clothes stack. We eat prepped sandwiches (made the night before to save 30 minutes) paired with my robust coffee. My chipped mugs? Blame the caffeine grip.
07:15. Time to dress my son, who at 19 remains almost entirely dependent. I wash him, fit his Tena, cool boxers, and clothes, dodging his frustrated flails and grabs that nearly yank my hair. Years on, his dependence still irks him. I brush his teeth, praying my daughter dressed herself. Outside, the neighbor's lights flicker on as she rouses her kids.
07:35. In the living room, I hustle my daughter into her clothes—she's brilliant, but self-dressing? Not yet. My son, now wheeled in, smacks eagerly. I hand him three sandwiches; he's traded tube feeding for half a loaf thanks to his daycare's influence. Meanwhile, his sister experiments at the table, hobby glue scent wafting.
07:50. Lunch boxes finalized, bags packed, school forms completed, son's communication button recorded—he needs it for group sharing.
08:00. Daughter, stop tinkering! Grumbling, she bags her crafts with her lap table. We dash to the wheelchair-adapted bus.
08:05. Wheelchair secured, daughter buckled. 'Thunderbirds are go!' We head to Baarn, one village over.
08:15. At school, I walk daughter to class; by 08:20, she's with her teacher. Brother waits patiently.
08:25. Back in the bus, we drop son at daycare. His escort and best friend greet him; he lights up for the day's adventures.
08:30. Homeward bound, dodging cargo-bike parents as shops stay shuttered.
08:50. Home. Kitchen battlefield—bread crusts, mandarin peels—swiftly trashed.
09:00. Victory. Time for my copywriting agency. Work is therapy after this marathon.
At 14:00, I log off, drive to Baarn. 14:20 parking spot secured.
14:30. Pick up daughter, then son at 15:00 from daycare. He beams; his buddy hugs farewell. Like Waldorf and Statler, they chatter nonstop.
15:20. Home. Daughter plays outside, son tunes into Xite TV. I cook dinner.
18:00. Evening tasks until 22:00, prepping tomorrow's sandwiches.
22:30. Lights out. 06:00 alarm looms.
Phew, Monique—what a relentless routine, especially mornings. I have immense respect for your daily mastery of it!
