Roger Collier

"Daddy, get up!" shouts my seven-year-old daughter, Ella, from the side of my bed. "I'm hungry."

I force open one eyelid a sliver, peek at the orange digits on the alarm clock: 6: 45 a.m. Groaning, I roll left, away from Ella, pulling my pillow over my head.

First thought: Shouldn't have stayed up till midnight reading that novel. Second thought: Shouldn't have bummed around the Internet for an hour after reading that novel.

"Give me 15 more minutes," I say.

I don't even get 15 seconds.

"Daddy!" shouts my son, Jack, lifting my pillow at one end and burrowing in close, his eyelashes blinking against my cheek. "Did you know that, in Mario Galaxy 2, Mario can turn into a drill and drill into a planet?"

Always with the video games, this kid. Day and night; Mario this, Luigi that. Only five years old and already obsessed.

"Good for Mario," I grunt, rolling right.

Ella yanks the pillow off my head.

"Daddy!" she shouts, angrier than an all-caps email.

I look up, see her staring down, brow furrowed, mouth an angry hyphen. Okay, okay, I surrender. I turn back the duvet, drag my legs into the cold, sit up. Another day begins.

Though I hate getting out of bed, especially on frigid winter mornings, the hour that follows is the best part of my day. It's not a fun time, not even close. My wife, who comes home before 4 p.m. to get the kids from school, is already at work. Which means: solo daddy. Which means: crazy hour.

Here, in condensed form, is how I spend the short period between waking and driving my children to school: make breakfast for kids, brew coffee, clean last night's dishes, prepare lunches, break up fighting children (first time), help Ella choose clothes, force Jack to wear clothes, brush teeth and hair (kids'), shower, shave, get dressed, break up fighting children (second time), brush teeth and hair (mine), put lunches in backpacks, put homework in backpacks, ask kids to put down toys and put on snowsuits, demand that kids put down toys and put on snowsuits, pluck toys from kids' hands and stuff kids in snowsuits, fill travel mug with coffee, grab long-gonecold piece of toast, leave house.

This hour is pure mayhem, a blur of food prep, cleaning and haphazard grooming. There is yelling (me). There are tantrums (them). There is swearing (almost).

Yet, despite the craziness, this time is important to me. The things I do during this hour are, I believe, the most important things I do all day. I once read a short story by Raymond Carver called A Small, Good Thing.

In it, a baker harasses a couple by phone for not picking up the cake they ordered for their son's birthday, not knowing the boy has since been in an accident and died. Later, when the couple visits the bakery in anger, the baker is contrite and comforts them the only way he knows how: by feeding them. "Eating is a small, good thing in a time like this," he tells them.

This is how I feel about getting my children ready in the morning. It is not a big thing; all parents with young children do it. Still, no matter how little I accomplish after leaving my house in the morning, I know I have already been productive.

Parenting is fraught with ambiguity. Am I too strict or too slack? Do I praise my children too much or too little? Are they too young to watch that show? Too young to listen to that song? Is my daughter already obsessed with fashion? Is my son already a video game addict? Will they grow up to be good people? What is a good person?

I don't know the answers to these questions. But I do know this: My children will not be cold; they will not go hungry; their hair will be tidy (somewhat); they will not smell (much); their faces will be clean(ish). Meeting their basic needs is not a big deal, but it's real. It's my small, good thing.

Breakfast in the Collier home, on the other hand, is a tumultuous thing.

"Daddy!" yells Jack, milk dribbling down his chin. "Ella is sticking her tongue out at me!"