What-Damn-Else, Jedi Bathrobe?

….Tim / Foter

This is what my Thursday is like:

6:30 AM: Cat attacks my arm, gets another free flying lesson. I am beginning to suspect she likes this, or has just fallen into a routine.

7AM: Radio clicks on. The Cure is doing Pictures of You. THANK YOU FOR BRINGING UP THAT TERRIBLE HIGH SCHOOL MEMORY, ROBERT SMITH. *sigh* Get up, roust kids. Shrug into Jedi bathrobe because it’s damn cold. Trip over dog.

7:15 AM: Coffee in hand. Lunches being made. Dog facedown in food bowl. Child mutiny over the last of the Froot Loops is narrowly avoided by the Mommy Voice barking either figure it out or you’re both having raisin bran, dammit! Mother of the Year award: taken away. That’s okay, I never dusted the damn thing anyway.

7:30, :45, :50, :55 AM: Remind Little Prince to brush teeth and get dressed. Openly wonder if he is part sloth today. Attempt to eat breakfast. Attempt fails each time. Coffee, however, is slugged religiously until gone.

8AM: Driving Princess to school. Sudden storm of tears. Someone is overwhelmed. No doubt hormones play a part. I will not throw a sobbing child out of the car at school.

8:02 AM: Driving Princess home. Realize I could conceivably spend the rest of the day in my Jedi bathrobe. Seriously consider said notion.

8:10 AM: Driving Little Prince to school. He is twitching with eagerness to see his teacher. “She’s like you, Mom. Only she’s not cranky in the mornings.” Gee, thanks, kid.

8:20-9AM: Go home, soothe Princess, make list of errands to be done. Decide not to stay in bathrobe after all. Leap into shower, turn shower off, have forgotten to rinse, hop back into shower. Shampoo in eyes. Curse and weep a little.

9:10-:55 AM: Post office. Grocery store. Princess is dragged along–if she’s not going to school, she’s going to help carry things. (She should be happy I’m not in the damn robe.) Prescriptions picked up. Princess makes longing remarks about the bagel shop. I roll my eyes, give her some money, and tell her I’ll schlep the bags to the car while she goes and gets an Eggel. My stomach growls. I stomp through the rain, get everything in the car, walk back to collect the now-beaming teenager, suspect I’ve been played the whole morning, decide she can clean the catbox later today. Gloat a little, secretly. Tell the madwoman canvassing the parking lot for drug money “not today, sorry” while cutting her away from my child. Stomach growls again. Child’s Eggel smells really good.

9:56 AM: Fall from dietary grace includes a couple hash-brown patties and an Egg McMuffin. Because I feel the need for wax and trans fats, okay? OKAY? And I don’t want to go into the bagel shop, because they have pumpkin bread, and I will not stop until I have eaten it ALL.

10:04 AM: Arrive home, chewing on the McMuffin while backing into the garage. Am slightly proud of myself for pulling that off. Princess is suitably impressed, helps carry groceries in, and throws her arms around me. “You know what, Mom? You’re really great. Really, really great.”

10:05 AM: Smiling, I realize I still have to do laundry and get a blog post up. Oh, and the book? It’s been simmering in the back of my head all this time, and I still have no idea what Emma Bannon is going to find when she opens up that door.

10:06 AM: Sigh heavily. Stare longingly at chocolate stash. Suppress grease-McMuffin burp, and know I’m going to regret all of this later.

10:30 AM: Wrapping up blog post. Look at couch, thinking nap might not be a bad idea. Trip over dog on way to couch, almost break leg, sit and swear through simmering pain-tears for a solid minute, Princess observes a deathly silence from her room where she is doing makeup work for her absence today. (Wise of her. If I’m swearing, I’m all right.) She pokes her head out when the storm passes. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I sigh, and drop heavily back down in my chair. “Just got told to get back to work.”

“Take a break. You work too hard, Mum.”

And I’m smiling again. She’s a good kid.

I can’t wait to see what-damn-else will happen before noon.