Mornings are notoriously stressful at chez moi. I have often lamented that I wish I had someone to put the bread in the toaster, help F get his shoes on and someone to feed the cat. An extra set of hands would be such a help, and it always seems to be the little things – like getting my sandwich in a Ziploc bag or turning off the Keurig – that completely derail the morning. Because the little things pile up to become mountains of To Dos that you must do in 10 minutes or less.
(Unless you want to be late, of course.)
Despite having a weekend to rest and catch up and relax and all that good stuff, Mondays – and this Monday in particular – are especially hard. Although I had finished the laundry and laid out F’s clothes and the necessities for his backpack before bed, I really struggled with getting everything together for go-time. Then there was the fact that I slept in more than an hour. And the fact that F’s legs are sore from running up Dingle Tower’s stairs. And he didn’t want breakfast. But he did. But he didn’t. And he had a bad dream. And and and but but but why why why.
As one does.
Racing from bedroom to bedroom to kitchen to dining room to bathroom to bedroom again, I answered F’s questions and the never-ending stream of Mama? and Can I tell you somethin’? – both of which I love, just not when we’re running late. After the umpteenth Mama… CAN I TELL YOU SUMFIN’? I felt it coming and before I could bite my tongue, I turned and stared at F with my crazy eyes and, with great exasperation and a hint of desperation for him to stop telling me sumfin’ and start putting his shoes on I whisper-shouted (this is a thing, you guys) WHAT?!
I just love you, Mama.
*heart melt* Aw. *smile* I love you too, kiddo. *warm fuzzies* Shit, F! We’re late! *frenzy*
As one does.
Twenty-four hours prior, we were lollygagging and casually tossing towels and toys into bags for the beach. Simple. Quiet. Sunny. Serene, even. (Except for when F dropped his drawers and started peeing… AT THE HIGH WATER MARK.) And then, all of a sudden, the Monday train races in and ruins the awesomeness that was a weekend at the beach. I’d like to go back to Sunday, if you don’t mind. Sunday was just right.