Falling Back Into Routine
Fall has this way of tricking me into thinking I’m about to become that version of myself again — the one who meal preps, lays out outfits the night before, and wakes up before the alarm with a peaceful smile and a perfect messy bun.
Spoiler alert: I am not that person.
Every morning starts the same way: my alarm goes off, and for a brief, dangerous moment, I consider the snooze button. But I’ve learned that the difference between a semi-smooth morning and full-on chaos is exactly nine minutes — the length of a snooze cycle. So I get up. Mostly.
The coffee pot timer is my love language these days. If I forget to set it, my whole morning feels slightly off — like the Wi-Fi’s lagging but in real life. I pack lunches (or at least toss together something that resembles a lunch), try to find an outfit that says “professional but comfortable” when all I really want to wear is sweats, and mentally run through the list of things I think I’ve already done. Did I shampoo my hair? Maybe. I honestly can’t remember, but it smells fine, so we’re calling it good.
Meanwhile, my girls are hunting down their shoes like it’s a scavenger hunt they didn’t sign up for. Backpacks? Check. Homework? Probably. Emotional readiness for the day? TBD.
My mom — bless her, truly — comes every morning to help get the girls on the bus so I can leave for work on time. She’s a talker, and I love her for it, but sometimes her cheerful morning chatter has me ten minutes behind schedule because, well… I want to talk too. (I get it from her.)
Once I finally make it out the door, audiobook playing, I’m in full “don’t spill the coffee, don’t forget the lunch, don’t hit the squirrel” mode. Traffic is its own adventure — a blend of brake lights, bad moods, and the occasional driver who thinks turn signals are optional.
When I get to school, I unload what feels like half my life: purse, lunchbox, backpack full of teacher things, and the sacred coffee cup. The office staff greets me with the kind of genuine kindness that makes 7:30 a.m. feel survivable, and for a second, I remember why I love this work.
Then comes setup — turning on the projector, finding the lesson plans, figuring out what “today’s schedule” actually means. There’s always something I don’t know. Where’s the copy paper? How do we take attendance here again? What’s the lunch routine? My teammates are saints. Patient, funny, endlessly helpful saints who deserve a medal for every time I pop my head into their rooms with a, “Hey, random question…”
And then the real show begins: a classroom full of fourth graders — curious, eager, silly, and endlessly surprising. They ask all the questions: “What if a volcano erupted under our school?” “How many minutes until recess?” “Do you have kids?” “What’s your favorite Pokémon?” They’re standing right on that line between childhood and independence — trying so hard to be mature while still delighting in the ridiculous.
They can spend five minutes earnestly debating what “six, seven” even means, and the next, collapse into giggles over a perfectly timed fart. No matter how responsible they’re trying to be, farts will always be funny.
And honestly? I love them for that. Their joy keeps the routine from turning robotic. They remind me that every day — no matter how messy the morning or how late the start — can hold something unpredictable, light, and genuinely fun.
When the day ends, I pack up and try not to question my sanity as my brain glitches from the sensory overload of questions, conversations, emotional regulation, planning, grading, and general fourth-grade silliness. I reset the classroom for the next day, make sure everything’s semi-ready, and gather up my personal essentials: purse, lunchbox, coffee cup, backpack, badge, and… sanity (if I can find it).
Back in the car, audiobook playing, I navigate grumpy drivers again — déjà vu with a different sunset.
Home means switching gears to mom mode. My girls greet me with hugs and a rapid-fire list of questions:
“What’s for dinner?”
“Can I have a snack?”
“Can I go play with friends?”
“Is it screen time yet?”
I check backpacks for papers, empty lunchboxes, and start dinner while trying to hold some sort of meaningful conversation. But let’s be real — by this point, someone’s tired, someone’s cranky, and someone’s zoning out (sometimes that someone is me).
My husband comes home, equally exhausted, and we finally all sit down together for dinner. It’s not fancy, but it’s ours — our little exhale after the day’s whirlwind.
Then comes bedtime: showers, stories, and the sweet chaos of getting everyone tucked in. And just like that, we reset.
It’s a busy season, but we’re finding our rhythm. This is a season of letting go of perfection and impossible expectations. A season of staying present, laughing at the chaos, and enjoying the simple, silly things — like hot coffee, kid jokes, and family dinners that end with sticky fingers and full hearts.
Because falling back into routine isn’t about getting it all right — it’s about finding joy in the in-between.
