Over the summer, I began a status update on Facebook, only to be told, by Facebook, that I had exceeded the character limit. Facebook politely asked me if I wanted to edit my post as a note. Seemed like a good idea at the time. The following is what came of that status turned note. It made me want to blog. Again (for those of you who know my previously ill-fated blogs "America's Next Top Novel" and "TV On a School Night"). Of course, in my post-kid life I have less time, never get to the movie theater, barely watch TV, and takes moths to finish a single book (except for Stress Free Potty Training, which did not make me feel any less stressed about potty training and nor did my kid miraculously potty train after I finished reading it). But clearly, I feel compelled to write, or at least overshare. And so it begins. Again.
Wake panting and disoriented from textbook stress nightmare at 6:06am. Can’t decide whether to get up, or try to sleep 14 more minutes before 6:20 alarm. Fall asleep at 6:18. Sleep past 6:20. No time to put unruly and yet helmet-like hair back. Wake up 2+ year old son at 7:00am to usual commands of “Mommy, go sit in chair by self. Charlie keep sleeping.” Scoot down the stairs with sun-block laden child in swim clothes at 7:22am. He asks if the oatmeal is ready. It is not, because we are out of oatmeal. 2 banana Yo-babies, one bowl of Raisin Bran (with extra raisins added by Mommy), one emptied dishwasher, and many washed dishes later, notice that it is 7:50. Five minutes until the stroller has to hit the road for daycare. Haven’t packed lunch yet, forgot the towel required for post- water play drying, have to go to the bathroom and still don’t have shoes on and haven’t put hair back. Scramble around for two minutes when thinking all will still be fine because even if we leave at 8, we’ll still be ok. The kid announces, “Mommy, poopy coming!” Really? Because the kid has a new penchant for saying it’s coming even when it’s not. “Can I check your pants?” “Don’t have to check, Mommy! Poopy is in there!” Yup. And not the kind that can be quickly changed in the living room. Attempt to make our way upstairs in an extremely rarely-executed timely manner, but first, take off rings because don’t want them to accidentally swipe any poop. Set them down somewhere sure to be remembered. Diaper change is relatively quick and without getting clocked in the face by a toy cutting board from the play kitchen, which is what happened last night. Back downstairs by 8:07. Late but can still make it by 8:30 which isn’t awesome as it’s not the requested arrival time of 8:20, but excusable. Before the kid is in the stroller, realize don’t have rings on. Can’t remember where I put them. Storm around the house whispering “dammit dammit dammit!” The kid follows screaming “dammit dammit dammit.” Trill “Nononono—we don’t have to say that! Mommy’s fine!!” Final “dammit” under my breath, which is of course, heard and repeated. Rings are found at 8:15am. Day care is 20 minutes away. Plunk the kid in the stroller and load up the 5 bags required of Monday morning’s schlep (Elmo backpack; Toy Story lunch bag; diaper bag filled with Monday replenishing of diapers, a blanket, and sheet; my work back pack, and own lunch bag of random crap), evenly divided between the bottom of the stroller (Damn you McLaren for making such a small under basket!), stoller handles, and shoulders. Exit house into Philadelphia pea soup of humidity. Hair is still not up and weight increases the minute I step outside. Begin to sweat before the door is locked. Pause to fumble for keys when a voice from under the stroller’s canopy says, “Mommy, don’t forget the water!” Back in the house searching for sippy cup. Back outside. And we’re off! Bolt and perform some ridiculous half run half walk while keeping bags from banging into hips and knees, attempting to make it to daycare by at least 8:35. At one traffic light, dude in a pick-up truck refuses to move because he is engaged in something other than watching his traffic light change from red to green. He is—without shame or any attempt to conceal his behavior—watching some young thing in cut off shorts and a ripped shirt cross the street and enter a coffee shop. Lament: my sweat, my hair, my slightly snug pants, the weight of the bags, and the loss of my youth. Nonetheless, curse him for not moving quickly enough (who has time for feminist politics right now?) and continue booking it until daycare door is reached--and because this is city daycare, with a very tiny double-doored vestibule entrance, all bags and children must be unloaded onto the street before folding the stroller as this is the only way you or your belongings or your kid will get through said doors. Unload the stroller and line up everything, including kid, on the front steps and attempt to lock the stroller before folding it. Some days lock works like a dream. Other days it has to be kicked wildly numerous times. Already know what today will bring. Get the thing locked, hoist it over shoulder and fill hands and arms with bags and manage to open the door for the kid who decides that now is the time to wrap his arms around legs and demand “Uppies!! Mommy hold you!” “Not now sweetie! Let’s get all of our things inside and go find Miss Gaby!” No such luck—pummel through the doors with stroller, 5 bags, sweat, hair, and child wrapped around legs. Dislodge everything, including kid, and make way to his room in the back. Swing by the refrigerator and drop off lunch bag. Can tell how late we are by the poor placement of the lunch bag now required. One remaining empty spot mocks me: “You are such a loser for being late! Now Woody and Buzzy have to be all the way back here!” Become anxious that Miss Gaby will not find the kid’s lunch. Oh my god, my 75th percentile weight child will starve because his lunch bag didn’t end up in its usual spot. Yes, it has his name in black marker across the handle. Yes, of course they will find his lunch. Sweat now blurring sanity as well as vision. Get to the back room and Miss Gaby approaches immediately to find out if the random shorts that have ended up in the kid’s cubby are his. They are not. “But doesn’t that look like his name written in there?” Why yes it does, but those are not my child’s shorts and of course, now worried about missing bus to work and already arrive late due to daily kid drop off duty. And still haven’t unpacked sheet and blanket or checked diaper stock and the kid still saying “Mommy hold you!” Relent. Pick the kid up. Do “headie down” first on the left shoulder and then he asks me to “move hair” (it’s an issue) so we can do headie down on the right shoulder. Hold him and sway back and forth until “Mommy has to go to work now.” Kid scrambles down from my arms and walks himself over to Miss Gaby. Am so proud and relieved since one week ago, on his first day at day care, they had to peel him off of me while he was screaming. Sweat a lot more on the way to the bus that is always late. Even later than I was this Monday morning.
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