Waking up Grumpy

I used to be a morning person. Atleast, after my first hour of consciousness I was a morning person. It's that actually getting out of the bed that's always the problem.
So it comes as no real surprise that my son does not like to be woken up. If he gets up on his own, putters about until he's good and ready to get dressed and go out, all is well. But the mornings I have to blast him out of bed after trying five or six times to wake him gently, there is hell to pay. God help me if I actually have to make him dress and leave the house before he's mentally prepared. (Really, I know how he feels, I just don't cry about it - most days.)
Take this morning: He woke up at the ungodly hour of 6:30, half an hour before my alarm was set to go off. (I hate that - those last few minutes will be mourned all day long.) No problem, since he got himself up, I listened to him play cars and trains in his room for a few minutes, then just as my eyes were closing again, he cracks his door. That's my cue for cereal. But mom's a meanie, sometimes I make him come and snuggle for a minute before I'll start the catering service.
I drag myself out of the bed, turn on the Thomas video he's asking for, and set him up with cereal and yogurt. He's satisfied, so with one last longing glance at the bed, I head for the shower. The cat, of course, has curled up in my warm spot and is rubbing it in.
About the time I'm ready to go - showered, dressed, coffeed and lunch made, the video ends and the war begins. He wants to watch it again. I say no. He starts whining. I turn off the TV and rewind the tape. He throws himself on the floor. I tell him we'll watch it again when we get home; it's time to get dressed. The crying continues. Did I mention I have no discipline skills?
I begin counting. "One - go take your pajamas off. Two - go take your pajamas off. Three - go take your pajamas off now!" Three is accompanied by a swat to the rear and guidance toward his room. The wailing hits decible level and I hear him throw himself on his bed. Time to break out the big guns. One minute to stop crying and show some action. Nothing. I march into his room, wooden spoon in hand. I gotta tell you, my mother broke so many wooden spoons over my butt she finally bought those industrial-size ones. Just in time for my sister's shenanigans. ;)
So far, the threat of the spoon does the job. He sees me coming and jumps off the bed and over to his dresser, where I have his clothes laid out. Finally, a break in the crying. We manage to get dressed, then I tell him to get in the car. "We going to work?" he asks. "You have to go to school." I tell him. And thus the wailing resumes. "I don't want to go see my teacher!" he cries. He has a new teacher. Not big on change either, is my boy. The wailing continues out the house and into the car. The neighbors are used to it. "Good morning, Daniel," one calls to my sobbing son. They're grandparents, so they don't really think I'm beating him half to death when he acts like this (I hope). Been there, done that, recognize the wailing.
Sullen gets us to the preschool. Occasionally, he even makes conversation: "Is that an ambulance?" "No baby, that's a cable truck." But once at the school, he wants to bring every toy in the car in with him. No dice. Well, that sets off a fresh round of stubborn. I feel like I'm draging him every step into the classroom, and then he clings. Won't let go, no, ma'am. So he winds up stqanding in the corner for disobedience and that's the last I saw of my child this morning. I suppose this, too, shall pass, but will we both survive it?
--Misty