The morning rush

It’s Murphy’s Law that when you’re in a rush or it’s pouring rain, you’re going to get delayed and spend time outside.

This morning, I was woken up abruptly by my husband. He can never just wake me up, he always has to give me a jab and say “Hey! It’s 6 o’clock! Time to get up!” To be fair, I am NOT a morning person and if he tried the soft and gentle approach, I’d just go back to sleep. But I still want to smack him.

Ten past six, I stumble into the shower. It’s always a debate. Do I wash my hair or not wash my hair? If I wash it, I will leave the house with a wet head because a.) it’s long and b.) I hate fussing with it and c.) who the hell has time to do their hair? Not me. If I don’t wash it, by noon it looks like a drunken monkey clinging to my head. So, wash.

Twenty past six, race downstairs to get the baby’s clothes out of the dryer, move the wet stuff into the dryer and put in a load of towels. How can three people and a baby go thru so many towels? It’s unbelievable. If you went into my bathroom on any given day, you’d swear there were at least 6 or 7 people living in my house. Towels hanging like Tibetan prayer flags. Draped like a Bedouin tent. That’s another rant for another day, however.

Six thirty. O comes down to the cellar and has the baby in her arms. Oh great. I was hoping to get dressed and get her bottles made before she woke up, but no, there she is, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Take the basket of clothes and the baby upstairs, plunk both on the bed. The baby starts to whine until she discovers the basket of clothes, then it’s party time. And people wonder why I don’t fold clothes.

Wonder of wonders, I have an outfit that actually matches. I do have to wear black pumps with brown trousers, which bugs me, but it looks ok. My hair, meanwhile, resembles a tangled mass of brown spaghetti. Always a good look.

Six forty. Wrestle I into her clothes. This is one child who does NOT like to be dressed. She much prefers naked and makes these whimpering, distressed cries while giving me the “Why do you torture me so, mother?” look. I used to feel guilty at that look. Now I just laugh at her.

Six fifty. This is not a good time to be logging O’s blood sugars, but I haven’t done it for three days. If I don’t log, I can’t track trends and if I don’t track trends, I can’t make adjustments to her insulin pump. The pump only holds a certain number of readings, though, and three days is, apparently, one day too many. Bugger. I really need to download that software onto my computer….

Seven. Put some rice, peas and chicken into a little container. Ditto for applesauce and rice cereal, ditto again for some baked beans. Make up three bottles. Throw them into I’s diaper bag. Bring diaper bag and my purse out to the car. Grab the two outdoor cats’ bowls and bring them back in with me. Put some leftover pasta (yum, with sundried tomatoes, artichokes, sauteed mushrooms and onions) into a container and grate some paremsan cheese on top. Grab a yoghurt. Grab I. Bring all of this out to the car. As I’m putting I in the car, I realize I’ve left the back door open and no sooner do I think “Damn, don’t let the dog get out,” what do I see streaking by me in a black and white blur? Thankfully, Dog thinks that the car is fanTAStic, so when she sees the back door open, she hops right in. Shut the door on the dog, go back inside and get her leash. Come back out and retrieve the dog, who does NOT want to get out of the car. Bring the dog inside. Feed the dog. Get my coat. Realize that yet again, my husband has not only forgotten to take out the trash, he’s forgotten to drag the wheelie bin to the bottom of the driveway.

Heave a big sigh. Take the trash bag out of the kitchen bin. Bring it outside, making sure to shut the door this time. Put it in the wheelie bin. Wheel it to the bottom of the drive as it starts to pour rain. Lovely. See why I don’t do my hair? Get in the car and leave.

On the up side, I lost NINE pounds at weigh in this week. Go me!