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mid-morning snack (packaged and nut-free). Relieved not to have to worry yet about jackets, mittens, and hats, I return to the kitchen to move things along.
    “James’s fish isn’t dead yet, so you have to feed him, Mom,” Henry reminds me.
    “His name is Little Blue!” James insists, hands on hips and eyebrows scrunched, as I drop a few pellets into the tank. Damn fish won’t die.
    When the boys finish eating, Henry puts on his socks and shoes while I quickly brush James’s teeth and load the dishwasher. I know what’s coming next even as I try to brace myself and remain calm. I have ten months of school mornings until summer vacation, and I had pledged to make it through at least the first one without yelling.
    “None of these socks feel good,” Henry whines from the mudroom.
    I feel the familiar knots starting in my stomach as a trickle of sweat makes its way down my back. I lower James from the step stool and stand in front of Henry. “But we tried on all these socks, Hen. You said you’d wear them.”
    “But they don’t feee-eee-uhhll good,” he replies, trying my patience.
    “Well, you’re just going to have to wear them,” I say in a calm voice that surprises us all. The boys are no strangers to my frustrated urgency when it comes to getting out of the house on time. “We don’t have time for this today. Just put them on and deal with it. Once you get your shoes on, you won’t notice the socks anymore.” This tactic has worked in the past, so I pray to the mothering gods that they won’t disappoint.
    “Fine.”
    Victory.
    “Okay, now put your arms around each other. I need a first-day-of-school shot,” I say, as I rally the boys and search for my phone in my purse. “Henry, don’t make rabbit ears over James’s head, please,” I beg as the shutter clicks and captures Henry smirking and James looking behind his head to see what the hell’s going on back there. It’ll have to do. The bus is about to arrive. I sigh, “Come on guys, let’s go.”
    The good thing about having my neighborhood’s bus stop right in front of my house is that I have until the last possible moment before we have to rush out the door. And, on the days that I don’t feel like engaging with the likes of Lorna Smithson et al., I can just send the boys on their way and wave from the house until the bus door closes. This being the first day, I brave the dewy grass in my slippers and join the other Central Casting suburban mothers and kids on my lawn.
    Which brings me to the bad thing about having my neighborhood’s bus stop right in front of my house: The likes of Lorna Smithson et al. feel some inalienable right to comment on the state of my grass, and I can always be sure that as the bus pulls away I will find sundry breakfast food wrappers from some of the neighborhood children littering my lawn, especially those for strawberry Pop-Tarts, which I know for a fact don’t belong to Lorna Smithson’s triplets, because I know for a fact she feeds them only steel-cut oats with organic blueberries and a kale shake. She just told me so. And how that woman gets those fifth graders to dress in identical outfits for the first day of school and actually have smiles on their faces, I will never know.
    “Did you get a good first-day-of-school photo?” Lorna asks me, her monstrous Nikon hanging from her neck as her pink Prada scrunch ballet flats sink into the wet grass. She cornered me, despite my attempts not to make eye contact with anyone. Just deal, Grace. A few more minutes.
    “Not so good. But good enough. I just like to capture the essence of the boys. I’ve always felt that the super-posed shots feel too forced,” I tell her, crossing my arms in front of my chest so no one will be able to tell I’m not wearing a bra under my threadbare U2 Joshua Tree concert T-shirt. I’m convinced she can read in my eyes that my husband cheated on me.
    “Mmmm.”
    Condescending bitch.
    Lorna continues, “I actually have all