The
Morning RUSH
By Jacqueline Renfrow
Two-and-a-half hours of
parenting one neurotypical
child and two children
with disabilities
Two months into virtual school, Jacqueline Renfrow
began to realize just how much she appreciated the
slower mornings of quarantine. Getting three kids
logged into Zoom at the same time could be chaotic,
but it didn’t compare to chaos of getting them out
the door every morning when school still took place
in classrooms.

Here, the Maryland mom of a neurotypical child,
an autistic child and a 2E child reflects on the hectic
pace of her family’s pre-coronavirus mornings.

42 Washington FAMILY JULY 2020



6:30 a.m. My nine-year-old son, Max,
who is twice-exceptional, walks into my
room, looking for me to get him breakfast.

I shake my head yes and slowly try to
slip out from under my seven-year-old
son, Joey, who is sleeping on top of
me. Oh, so gently, I rise from the bed,
but he’s onto me. As I creep into the
bathroom I hear, “Mommy, where are
you going?” Joey, who is autistic, has a
sense for always knowing where I am—
day or night. Bathroom, exercise bike,
kitchen sink, bed, he’s right there next
to me.

6:45 a.m. I head downstairs, and my
seven-year-old daughter, Amelie, follows.

She’s awake, no doubt due to the fact
that her twin brother is screaming from
my bed for me to come sit with him.

She’s hungry, too. For the next 15 to 20
minutes, she will tell me she doesn’t
know what to eat, and I will list the
options repeatedly while trying to make
three lunches. After the whining and
debating, she will inevitably land on
Cheerios and milk.

7:00 a.m. I am proud that I now have
two children eating breakfast. Well,
until one gets distracted and asks
the other to go downstairs and play.

“Only for a few minutes. You have
to get dressed for school,” I yell, but
they are already gone. While they are
away, I return to my bedroom to try
and drag Joey out of bed. “Sit with me,
Mommy, please,” he whines and whines.

Eventually I relent and sit for two
minutes. I pretend I am happy to be
cuddling, but my mind is actually
thinking about what else needs to
get done in the next hour.

7:15 a.m. Joey is asking for
pizza, again. I’m annoyed and
tell him, “No, you can have
pizza later.” This immediately
sets him off. As he’s screaming,
throwing things on the ground
and calling me names, I’m biting
my tongue so that I don’t make the
situation worse. I’ve learned that the
Left: Max, Amelie and Joey in
Annapolis on New Year’s Day.

Below: The author and her
daughter dressed up for a
wedding. best response to my
son, if he’s not hurting
anyone, is to ignore
him until he’s calmed
himself. Only then
can I give him a hug
and talk to him in a
fairly reasonable tone.

But this could take
close to 30 minutes, and
I worry I’ve now slowed
down the morning process
even more. Getting him
dressed and fed will have to wait.

7:30 a.m. I hurry back down to finish the
lunches. I quickly wash the water bottles
and put them into the backpacks with
Joey still next to me, crying. I scan the
notes on the fridge to see what specials
or extracurricular activities each child
has today. One must remember to wear
sneakers for PE, another needs a snack
for afterschool drawing and a third has to
bring money for a field trip.

7:45 a.m. “Come up from the basement
now, we’re going to be late. Pleeaassee
go get dressed!” Max and Amelie finally
emerge from the basement, and someone
says, “But I didn’t finish my breakfast!” At
this point they can finish in the car. “Go
upstairs and get dressed. And don’t forget
to brush your teeth while you’re up there.”
7:55 a.m. I run upstairs to check progress.

One is playing LEGO and another is
dressing her dolls. I chase Amelie around
the room with a hairbrush, and she ducks
and screams with every stroke. Apparently,
I’m evil for trying to get the knots out. I
send her to the bathroom to brush her
teeth and run into the next room. Yes, Max
is ready! Well, minus socks and shoes, but
that won’t take long, right?
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