MARY SMITH’S ALARM CLOCK went off at 5:30 A.M., but she was already awake. Wide awake, thinking about, of all things, how to make a porcupine costume for her daughter Ashley’s school play. What would she possibly use for porcupine needles?

It had been quite a late night, but she never seemed to be able to shut off the mental ticker tape that was her “to do” list.

They needed more peanut butter, Kid’s Crest, Zyrtec syrup, and one of those little bulbs for the bathroom night-light. Brendan had soccer practice at three, which started at the same time as—and fifteen miles away from—Ashley’s tap class. Figure that one out. Adam’s sniffles could have gone either way in the night, and Mary could not afford another sick day. Speaking of which, she needed to put in for some second shifts at her job.

And this was the quiet part of the day. It wasn’t long before she was at the stove, calling out orders and fielding the usual spate of morning-time needs.

“Brendan, help your sister tie her shoes, please. Brendan, I’m talking to you.”

“Mommy, my socks feel weird.”

“Turn them inside out.”

“Can I take Cleo to school? Can I please? Please, Mommy? Oh, please?”

“Yes, but you’ll have to get her out of the dryer. Brendan, what did I ask you to do?”

Mary expertly flipped a portion of perfectly fluffed scrambled eggs onto each of their plates just as the bread in the four-slice toaster popped up.

“Breakfast!”

While the two older ones dug in, she took Adam to his room and dressed him in his red overalls and a sailor shirt. She cooed to him as she carried him back out to his high chair.

“Who’s the handsomest sailor in town? Who’s my little man?” she asked, and tickled him under his chinny-chin-chin.

“I’m your little man,” Brendan said with a smile. “I am, Mommy!”

“You’re my big little man,” Mary returned, chucking him lightly under the chin. She squeezed his shoulders. “And getting bigger every day.”

“That’s ’cause I clean my plate,” he said, chasing the last bit of egg onto a fork with the flat of his thumb.

“You’re a good cook, Mommy,” Ashley said.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Now come on, let’s go. B.B.W.W.”

While she cleared the dishes, Brendan and Ashley marched back down the hallway in a singsong chant. “Brush, brush, wash, wash. Teeth and hair, hands and face. Brush, brush, wash, wash . . .”

While the older two washed up, she put the dishes into the sink for later; gave Adam’s face a quick once-over with a wet paper towel; took the kids’ lunches, packed the night before, out of the fridge; and dropped each one into the appropriate knapsack.

“I’m going to put Adam into his car seat,” she called out. “Last one outside is a googly worm.”