Here's a sampling of some recent morning words spoken within our house within the last week. And the week before that. And the week before that.

"Please get outta the bathroom, I have to do my hair."

"ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHH!!! My hair won't go right this morning."

"We can't leave yet, I've got to curl my hair."

And my favorite, from The Boy: "What do you mean fix my hair? It's not broke."

Now that all five of us must get ready for our days at the same time every morning, the bathroom situation is rearing its ugly head once again at Casa Jim.

Several months ago, in a previous life, I was up and out the door before even the sun clocked in every day. I was at my desk at 6 a.m. every peaceful, quiet, blissful morning. In the olden days, I left it to Mrs. P to make sure everyone was in their places. Whether they had bright, shiny faces was something I seldom thought about. That was Mrs. P's problem. (Except, of course, on those frequent mornings when she would call me and tell me our daughters were in a real need of signing an emergency peace accord with the assistance of an impartial third party brought in by the U.N. Security Council to oversee the entire proceeding).

Now that I occupy an ergonomically correct chair during a more normal 8-5 work-day, I am privy to what goes on in this house every morning.

And frankly, I am disturbed.

Exhibit A: The Boy. He is 5 years old. He gets up in the morning, throws on a pair of jeans, tugs on a sweatshirt, pulls on a pair of unmatched socks, eats a pop tart and runs a brush across his teeth. Voila! He is ready. Occasionally, we are lucky enough to have time to run some water on a comb in the often vain attempt to wet down his suddenly prominent cow lick.

Though The Boy has painstakingly prettied himself up for the day in a matter of seconds, neither he nor his Dad can even THINK of going anywhere until his older sisters decide they are ready. And since they are girls, getting ready for school every day is not a matter of simply wetting down a cow lick.

Exhibit B: For our 10-year-old, proper coiffing consists of locating every butterfly hair clip within reach, and putting her locks up in as many pony-tails as is humanly possible. The other day, she went to school with FIVE pony tails. She looked like a water fountain at a city park.

Another day, she had SIX pony tails, three on each side. A sort of caterpillar look. She attached two butterfly clips to the front of her head. She was definitely going with a Beauty of Nature motif that day.

Exhibit C: And then there's our 13-year-old. God love her. Let me go no further before assuring you that this is where the humor ends.

Allow me to set the stage.

Her alarm sounds at 6:15. I am in her bedroom at 6:20, encouraging her to get up. I am again in her bedroom at 6:25, suggesting strongly that she get up. Encouragement is no longer a part of the dialogue. At 6:30, I shine a spotlight in her face and remind her how precious life is (hers particularly) and it's best enjoyed while she is awake and at school.

She drags herself to the bathroom, and a veritable eternity later, she turns on the shower. Forty minutes after first setting foot in the bathroom, her little sister knocks on the door.

"Time's up," the younger one says, knocking on the door. "My turn. Come out now. PLEASE!"

No response from the dark side of the door.

("Them's fightin' words," as Hatfield used to say to McCoy. Which is how that Hatfield-McCoy thing started in the first place -- because one of them spent too much time in the bathroom fixin' his hair).

"PLEASE! Come out Now, please!" our 10-year-old pleaded again.

This, of course, RUINS the day for our teen. How COULD her little sister even SUGGEST she be done in the bathroom since HER hair is nowhere close to being done. She sulks out of the bathroom in her terrycloth turban -- a morning ritual. She stumbles back to her bedroom and sits down in front of the mirror. She can, of course, do NOTHING until her hair dries naturally (blow drying it causes damage, understand). So our teen-ager sits and waits. And waits. And waits, until her unmanageable, tangled, disheveled, blond hair is dry.

After a second eternity, it's time for her to pull out the curling iron -- perhaps the single most infuriating product ever invented from a Dad's point of view.

With Mrs. P safely at work and our 10-year-old on a bus to school, all who are left in the house are me, The Boy, The Teen-ager and the curling iron.

Every morning, The Boy and I do the same father-son bonding thing, wondering if this is the day we die of old age waiting for our oldest to finish her hair.

"Are you ready?" I ask The Teen-ager calmly.

"Almost. Just finishing my hair," she says in a reassuring manner.

"Oh brother," The Boy said the other day. "We'll NEVER get to leave today, will we Dad?"

"Just wait until you get married and have kids of your own," I remind him. "Enjoy kindergarten while it lasts. Enjoy the freedom you have. The recess you enjoy every day. Enjoy kicking your sisters while you can, because when YOU'RE the father, you just sit back and whine. You can't kick them anymore when they're late."

"HEY! Are you almost ready?" I gently whine at our teen-ager. "I have a job, y'know! I have to make money to keep you in curlers, so let's MOVE IT."

"I'm just about done," she tells me. "I just have to curl my hair."

She JUST has to curl her hair. Not even 8 o'clock in the morning and I'm already running my hand over my face in TOTAL exasperation.

I tell my teen-age daughter in mock seriousness to take her time.

"Well while you're curling your hair, I'll have just enough time TO TAKE A ROCKET SHIP TO MARS AND RETRIEVE THAT PESKY SATELLITE THAT CRASH LANDED. When I get back to Earth, I think I'll drop by Pat Buchanan's and convince him to become a Democrat, and run Little Elian Gonzallas back to Cuba where he belongs, then I'll stop back by here and pick you up for school. YOU THINK YOU'LL BE READY BY THEN??"

To read previous "Life With Dad" columns, Visit the site. If you enjoy this column, send it to some friends or family, or invite them to join our mailing list. And thank you. Email the author.