On the mornings that my husband is at the box (Crossfit, yo!), I wake the kids up solo, frog-march them into the bathroom to potty, then drag them bodily to the table. I then face the life-altering woe that an almost 5 year old can muster when it comes to Cheerios being “Sooooo boring, Mommy!” I read riot act of “This or nothin’, dude!” , give in, add raisins or chocolate chips to it, and walk away to pack bags, find shoes, and perhaps, maybe, wash my face (shower? Ain’t nobody got time for that!) before I have to referee a heated argument about who is cooler (I’m not silly, I’m cool! You’re silly! No, I’m cool! and so on…) which always ends in tears for one of them.
Then, I cajole, plead and beg the boy to get dressed, and bargain with my daughter to wear what I have laid out. Yelly Mom sometimes makes an appearance, immediately followed by Guilty Mom.
No matter how horrid the morning is going, the moment my sweaty, disheveled, stinky husband walks in the door, it is like the biggest celebrity in the world is spotted. There is running, shrieking, and a chorus of “DADDYDADDYDADDY!”. Chopped liver (me), then get a reprieve so I can finally pee and run a brush through the mop on my head. Then I blearily gather up my essential items so I can get to work (phone, bus pass, wallet, earbuds, lunch… What am I forgetting? Oh right… pants.)
So, by the time I get on the bus to go to work, I am already frazzled, my patience is thin. I narrow my eyes at the people on the bus that look serene, calm, casually sipping their coffee whilst perusing a paper (those of you who can read on a moving bus without tossing your cookies, I hate you.). They don’t have toddlerists, do they? Or if they do, they must have a nanny, cuz here I am, milk stain on my shirt, hair scraped back under a hat, dark circles under my eyes, wishing for a caffeine IV… and they look awesome. *grump*
I love my children with the force of a thousand runners with credit cards at a running store sale, but sometimes, on “box” mornings, I want to just RUN AWAY. (http://youtu.be/KAp9sFVdERQ)
Am I allowed to do that? Didn’t think so.
This morning, on a non-box day, we had spent a rather grueling night dealing with a wakeful, restless little girl. Both of us looked like we’d been through &^%*. I was lieing there in bed, gathering the will to face the day, my husband semi-awake on the other side, groaning softly. My daughter, wedged between us and insistent to get up, slid off the bed, walked into the hallway, and exclaimed in delight as her brother opened his door. She said “Good morning, broffer! I glad to see you!” and then they held hands and walked into the dining room, ready for their breakfast.
WTF? Why can’t they do that when I am by myself in the morning? It’s a conspiracy.
Now that my husband has witnessed that event of complete adorableness, he must think that I am making up the temper tantrums, time-outs, spilled milk and cereal stories. He likely now believes I am CRAZY, as how can these two angel-faced, happy children be the little demons I describe?
I give up. I do! If you want me, I will be under my desk, making a fort out of old duotangs, binder clips and broken pencils.
In truth, as I take my break this morning, there is not enough coffee in the world to prevent the Zombiemom tendencies to be on full display. If my head hits the keyboard, hopefully it will be enough to wake me up before I add thousands of the letter B, N, M and commas to my document. Guh…