Monday morning chaos like sam trying to chain himself to the bed so he doesn’t have to go to school and trying to wake Scott up is like talking to a brick wall and of course fighting over the front seat all while having to race them to school on time
“Monday Mayhem in the Monroe Household”
Son! Sam x Mom Reader x Son! Scott
“Boys! Get up!” you roared from the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the kind of furious energy usually reserved for street fights. The toaster popped violently, launching toast like a ballistic missile, and you lunged, catching it one-handed. The eggs were starting to smoke.
Silence. Absolute, ominous silence from the boys’ room.
Your eye twitched. “SCOTT! SAM! GET. UP!”
Nothing. Not a rustle. Not a groan.
Oh, we’re doing this today?
You stomped down the hallway, the spatula still in your hand like a weapon. The boys’ room was a war zone of discarded laundry, guitar picks, and crumpled sports jerseys. Somewhere under a fortress of blankets, Scott lay sprawled like a corpse, only his wild, sandy hair poking out.
“Scott. Get. Up.” You shook his shoulder. Nothing. You shook harder. “Scott Monroe, if you don’t wake up right now, I swear I will—”
“M’awake,” he slurred, his face still buried in the pillow.
“No, you’re not.” You yanked the pillow out from under him. He barely reacted, face now squashed against the bare mattress.
“No. Minutes.” You leaned down and grabbed the bottom of his mattress, heaving it upwards like you were flipping a pancake. Scott’s limp body slid off, hitting the floor with a thud.
“Good morning, sunshine!” you chirped, already moving to the other side of the room.
Sam’s bed was… suspicious. His familiar pile of blankets seemed a little bulkier today, and one corner of his comforter had a silver glint to it.
“Sam?” You leaned in, and a chain slipped out, clinking against the bedpost.
“Samuel Monroe. Did you chain yourself to the bed again?”
“I’m protesting!” came his muffled voice from beneath the mountain of blankets.
“School. Life. Waking up.”
You ripped off the covers, revealing Sam, half-tangled in the chains that usually dangled from his cargo shorts, looped around his waist, padlocked to the bed frame. His eyeliner was smeared, his hair a chaotic mess, and he clutched the chains like a Victorian prisoner.
“This is a statement!” he shouted, yanking at the chains dramatically.
You sighed, plucking a hairpin from your wrist and expertly picking the lock like the experienced boy mom you were. “The only statement you’re making is that I should’ve invested in a home security system instead of raising two tiny gremlins.”
Sam flopped backwards, dramatically throwing an arm over his eyes. “I can’t go. I’m dropping out. I’m living off the grid.”
“Perfect. I’ll take your Xbox and turn your music room into a yoga studio.”
In the kitchen, the pancakes were on the brink of cremation. You flipped them onto plates, shoved eggs on the side, and stuffed lunch boxes with whatever you could grab — leftover pasta for Sam, a ham and cheese sandwich for Scott, a handful of cookies for both because you had already accepted defeat.
The boys stumbled in, Scott wearing his jersey backwards and blinking like a newborn mole, Sam in a wrinkled band tee, his chains still dragging behind him like some goth Christmas decoration.
“Sit. Eat. Do not speak,” you commanded, slamming the plates down.
Peace. Beautiful, fleeting peace. The boys ate with the desperation of starving wolves, syrup dripping down Scott’s chin while Sam stabbed at his eggs like they owed him money.
“I need more syrup,” Scott grumbled, holding out his plate.
“Please?” you corrected, pouring more.
“I need coffee,” Sam muttered, leaning his forehead against the table.
“You need therapy,” you shot back, kissing the top of his head.
Three minutes of bliss. Then you glanced at the clock.
Chaos re-erupted. Scott bolted to the bathroom, trying to brush his teeth while simultaneously shoving on his shoes. Sam was swearing because one of his chains got stuck in the door handle.
“Backpacks! Shoes! Let’s go!” you yelled, grabbing your keys.
Scott shot out of the bathroom, leaping over the couch like a parkour athlete. “SHOTGUN!”
“NO, YOU DON’T!” Sam lunged, grabbing his brother by the hoodie. “I’m not sitting in the back next to your stinky gym bag again!”
They were clawing at each other like feral cats, and you stormed out the front door. “I don’t care who sits where! Both of you — BACK SEAT!”
They froze, looking at you with wide, betrayed eyes.
They crammed in, knees jammed against each other, still muttering curses.
“I get to pick the music,” Scott declared, grabbing the aux cord.
“Like hell you do!” Sam snatched it, yanking it so hard it nearly ripped.
“I will turn this car around,” you threatened, pulling out of the driveway at breakneck speed.
“Mom, he’s playing that screamo crap!”
“Better than your stupid Drake playlist!”
You ripped the aux cord out, shoving it in your cup holder. “No music. Silence. Absolute silence.”
Miraculously, they shut up.
“Mom, he’s breathing on me.”
“I’m literally breathing air!”
“He’s got his gross hoodie on me!”
“It’s not gross, it’s fashion!”
“I will leave you both on the side of the road!” you barked, gripping the wheel so hard your knuckles were white.
You swerved into the school drop-off lane, tires squealing. The boys grabbed their bags, Scott nearly tripping over Sam as they tumbled out.
“Have a great day!” you called, leaning out the window with a forced smile.
Scott paused, waving. “Love you, Mom.”
Sam leaned back in, blowing you a kiss. “Thanks, Mom.”
They ran off, shoving each other the whole way to the doors.
You sank back into your seat, taking a deep, glorious breath. Silence. Sweet, perfect silence.
Scott: I forgot my math book. Can you bring it?
You screamed into the steering wheel.
