I tend to stay up late on those crispy nights and slave over my keyboard and watch bad old movies on TNT.

After those kinds of nights—heck, even after the good ones where we all hit the hay before the late show appears—we usually don't face the day until well after the alarm clocks go off.

But my son needs to be up and on his way to school by 7:15, a beastly hour for humanity to demand a coherent thought, let alone civility or reason. And woe be to the person who tries to wake the slumbering midget, my son. His idea of morning is afternoon, and I admit the same is true for me.

My son and I are not morning people. But the daily run to class often calls for drastic measures, most of which consist of getting my son up, dressed, fed and out the door in a whirlwind of activity that is under 10 minutes. It also means me hauling my coffee out with him when I'm still not properly dressed.

When I was a child, there were many moms that often arrived to drop their children at school in less than country club attire. Almost all had a few curlers in their hair, and several seemed to have fallen rather than stepped out of their homes. Early morning was not a requirement of the brunch set, especially if they had been out late the evening before playing cards, trying out the new fondue pots, or entertaining their spouse and his boss.

Today the world frowns on that, and so in order to keep up the appearance that I am neither totally mad nor worthy of a visit from the makeover mavens, when we are running behind—and especially on the chillier mornings—I plan to stay in the car and keep to myself the fact that I'm wearing jammies.

It is a plan full of merit but often fraught with disaster because it never seems to come off right. More than once a well-meaning mom has sauntered over to my car window while I am patiently waiting for a curb spot to open and begun discussing PTA items only to suddenly comment on my wonderful winter coat. The fact that it is made of white flannel and covered with small winter trees seems to escape their notice.

I always smile and do my best to hide my gray mule-covered feet under my robe while I thank them profusely. Then we nudge over to the curb and try to escape without my having to admit that they look smashing in their new gym togs and matching walking shoes.

All of which got me thinking that maybe I could get away with a few small errands in my housecoat if I was really desperate and the audience was similarly inattentive.

I wonder what the situation would be if I wandered into Boulanger for a morning crescent roll—sans slippers—looking casual. While I might—just might—be able to pull off the floor-length flannel housecoat, the uncombed hair sticking out like I had licked a live socket and the pillow creases on my still unwashed face might just make people think I looked more like a homeless person than a homemaker.

But the drive-up window at Walgreens seems like it's safe enough, as does making deposits in the drive-through at the bank.

If I coordinate my mornings well, I can be back home within a half-hour of leaving, have all my errands run and be able to slide back into bed and snuggle down under the sheets before they even get cold. Then I can wait for spring.

Contact Deborah Taylor-Hollis at dthollis@svcn.com.