8:15 a.m. As I sit here, contemplating all of my work deadlines with my eye twtiching, staring out the window, as the aroma of Guinea pig piss wafts into my office and strangles me because some little person convinced me that she would clean the cage and LIED, I look around my office. My own little private space which has somehow become a natural disaster site since shoving all the stuff that we couldn’t get put away before the last round of visitors came to stay. I notice my yet to be unpacked spring break luggage. Did I take the swimsuits out? Oh, shit, I hope I took them out or else I am going to have to burn the entire suitcase, clothes and all. Where do I start? I’ve got on my yoga pants, I should probably exercise. Nah, I should probably clean the Guinea pig cage. Do the laundry. Wash the dishes. Go to the grocery store. Call the doctor about this f*cking twitchy eye.
Seriously, this is my biggest question of every single day. I know that I start by waking up at 6:30 a.m. , forcing myself out of my exhausted fog that every insomniac suffer in the morning, and after a quick pit stop to brush my teeth, because I learned the hard way that little people are brutal, I tiptoe into my daughters’ room to wake them up. That usually goes a little something like, “Bella, Gabi…wake up sweeties.” I whisper this in an almost nauseatingly Snow White like voice. With a grunt, they pull the blankets up above their heads in protest. I think of it as the elementary aged kids, “Go F*ck Yourself, Lady!”
Then I try my Good Morning song that I have sung to them since Bella was a baby. (Sung to the tune of Good Mornin’ from Singing in the Rain) Good Mornin, Good Mornin..it’s great to be alive. Good morning, good mornin to you! And you and you! Good morning, Bella & Gabi, it’s great to be your Mommy. Good mornin, good morning to you! Boopboopitydo!” and I kiss them and they audibly grunt or they smile. In desperation, at this point, I usually pull off the blankets and tell them it’s 7 a.m. and we need to eat breakfast. Sometimes they move, sometimes they don’t. Either way, I head downstairs. Usually followed by two grumbling, mumbling pissed off at the day tiny tyrants. It sounds a lot like the Hamburgler is trailing me contemplating pushing me down the stairs. I am a little afraid for my life. I am already exhausted.
Then we play the I don’t want THAT! Game. I propose 27 different breakfast combinations and they promptly reject every single one of them. After 15 minutes of this. I say, fuck it and everybody gets Cheerios. Ticktock only 15 minutes before the SUV leaves the driveway bound for school. Come on Debi, You can do this. Get your head in the game. You can survive anything for 15 more minutes. You went through 13 hours of unmedicated labor. You did those 17 days without carbs (once). You didn’t kill anyone on that 3-day juice cleanse last month. You got this. Hell, you survived Dream Girls. You got this GIRL! Finally, the youngest(who pretty much hates everything and everyone in the morning….so not a morning person. Give that kid of coffee!) tells me just how damn awful those Cheerios were as she throws her empty bowl into the sink. It’s now 7:25 a.m. Only 5 more minutes, 10 tops.
“Go upstairs and brush your teeth! NOW!” I yell for encouragement.
My 6-year-old has now gone into her specialized slowmo movements. It takes her three days to walk up the flight of stairs to her bathroom destination. I can feel my sanity breaking as a barrage of questions and indignant declarations assaults me.
Where are my underwear? I DON’T HAVE ANY SOCKS! I don’t want to wear my uniform. I want to wear shorts. I don’t care if it’s snowing. You hate me don’t you?MOMMMMMMMMYYYYYY! Why is the sky blue? Mommy where are my library books? Can you make me cold lunch? I need money for a field trip. Today is the last day. I hate you! Fine! You don’t care about me.
AAAAAAHHHHHHHH! (in my head) SHUT.THE.FUCK.UP.PLEASE!! GOD! NOW!
Did I mention that I had already set their clothes out on their beds for them while they were eating? They have just not even made it back into their room yet? It is now, 7:33 a.m. The SUV should have departed 3 minutes ago.
One kid is fully dressed but decides NOW is a great time to change her earrings. The youngest is still in her underwear, dancing in front of the full-length mirror in her socks. I say, “Put your clothes on. Now! We are going to be late.” She huffs and, once again, now in ultra slowmo puts on her pants and then her shirt. She brushes her teeth finally, dripping red watermelon toothpaste down her fresh white uniform shirt.
“Where’s my belt, MOMMY?”
Me: “The one hanging from your back belt loop?”
Indignantly, she turns and without missing a beat, “NO, not that one. This one is ugly.”
She has 10 belts; they are all exactly the same.
Meanwhile, her sister can’t find the back of her piercing and is crying hysterically because “obviously” I should have never let her take the damn earrings out because now the hole is closed up and it’s all my fault for giving birth to her. It’s 7:36. We are going to be late.
I flip into supersonic, greased lightening or is that greased chicken (which one is faster?) speed and I brush their waist length hair as fast as I can. As I put them into the only hairstyle we have time for at this point, the side-pony or topknot, my oldest puffs in exasperation because she wants it curled. CURLED? IS this kid crazy? Sorry, no curls for you!
The littlest one, still only wearing one fricking shoe, tells me to stop brushing so hard. She starts to ugly cry and now looks like a spotted leopard. Her sister comes into soothe her and tiny tyrant says, “It’s all your fault Bella! If you didn’t sleep on the left side of the bed, I could have been a morning person!”
ME: WHAT THE F*CK?
And then the big sister starts to ugly cry…AGAIN. It’s 7:43.
NO way in hell these kids are getting to school by 7:50 but we’ve got to try. We get down the stairs and they both decide that NOW is the time to go over every scratch of paper in their backpacks. I assure you that it is not. It’s 7:45.
We get into the car and as we pull out my youngest says, “Mom, I told Lily about your baby.”
Me: “What baby?” because honestly at 6-years-old her imagination has babies coming out of our ears.
Gabs: “The baby that died in your tummy.”
(Pardon the pun) DEAD Silence.
7:50 a.m. I drop the girls off at the school office. They both give me a big kiss and an, “I Love you MOMMY!” They walk into school, turning back one last time to blow me a kiss. My heart melts.
7:51 a.m., I pull away, I ugly cry and I pop a Xanax. This is Wednesday
If you’ve ever ugly cried after drop off been brought to tears by a screaming kid who couldn’t find their library book or just not gotten enough sleep or had a twitchy eye and felt like you were doing it all wrong…please leave me a comment and share this post because I think we have all been here. Well, I hope so or my other eye might start twitching too.