Click

Getting my three young kids ready for the day is a challenge.

Each step in this (minimum) ninety minute process is accompanied by varying degrees of "encouragement," ranging from friendly reminders to shouted orders. Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance aren't grief stages, they're what I go through just getting my picky daughter dressed.

By the time I finally wrangle the kids into their carseats I am always harried and often frustrated, weary, and even sweating from the effort.

Then comes the click.

It's the last click, the longed-for final click that signifies that each child is locked in his or her seatbelt, ready to go.

This tiny noise roars in my head like a happy gong: the morning routine is complete.

It happens every day, but each time it's somehow unexpected and exquisite.

Even in the biggest rush, the click slows my heartbeat and reduces my stress level. The click means that the children are ready, safe, and best of all completely and deliciously trapped.

The kids are strangely stilled by the click. Unable to grab, hit, or physically face each other, they are content to sit quietly, at least for a few minutes. This is partially due to the departure of the referee -- myself -- since I have either hidden behind the minivan to catch my breath and gather my strength (picture a heroine reloading around a corner in a movie gunfight) or I've gone back in the house to close up.

After the click I can complete my final preparatory tasks with minimal effort and lightning speed. Unencumbered by my precious but poky children, I whirl through the house greased by my solitude. I hop two steps at a time to fetch my earrings, I dash hither and yon to find homework, and I breeze through the kitchen to grab my purse -- all in less time than it takes to tie my toddler's shoes.

I know that the fracas will start again as soon as I hop into the driver's seat. I never know what will happen: shouts, belly laughs, sobs, vomit, and sing-alongs have all been part of my morning commute.

The click signals the beginning of a brief, daily moment where I can step back to be both contemplative and effective. I pause to admire my restrained but beautiful children, recharge my batteries, get my act together while I am fleetingly, luxuriousy alone.