I’ve been around the mom scene for awhile now. I’ve read the advice of all the experts, all the Supermoms out there, all the organized and together ladies who have a grip on schedules and herding children and balancing life and kids and work and all the other stuff moms do. (If you are one of these moms, please comment below. I may be willing to pay for all of your secrets. In wine.) In all these years, I’ve adamantly poo-poo’ed all the encouragement of said moms who recommend that in order to have a most productive day, a mom must wake up an hour or more before her children in order to have quiet time, alone time, time to meditate and enjoy a cup of coffee. I’m not a morning person; I never have been. The later I stay awake, the more energized I become and, consequently, the more creative I can be- without interruptions. The downside is, I’m not exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the mornings. It takes awhile for the caffeine to kick in and the synapses to start firing.
When my alarm went off this morning, nobody else was awake yet. As per usual, I hit snooze and rolled over, but an impending thunder storm had the dog pacing, her long nails clicking on the hardwood floor of my bedroom. Reluctantly, I rolled out of bed and stumbled downstairs to put her outside and put some fresh water in her bowl before the heavens opened up and she got wet (I don’t call her “Princess” for nothing, folks. My girl does not like to be rained upon.)
While she was outside, I made myself a cup of coffee, emptied the dehumidifier, and did a few other morning chores before picking up a book I’d started last night. I didn’t get through one whole page before I heard one of the twins breathing in the upstairs hallway. (Yes, for real. Come on, you know you know what I’m saying). He wasn’t talking- he usually doesn’t for awhile after he wakes up (he may or may not have inherited this genetic pleasantry from his mother)- but I could hear him rustling around on the carpet. I went up to check, and sure enough, he was lying in the middle of the floor with his blanket. I hadn’t made it to the shower before his twin- much more boisterous and loud from the second he wakes up- bounced out of my bed, where he’d been asleep between Ryan and me since about 3AM, and followed me to the bathroom.
So much for peace and alone time.
From that point, my morning went much the same as one where I sleep until the last possible moment (ahem, every day…). I never got the dishwasher unloaded, forgot to pack a lunch to take with us, barely got the boys out the door on time, and didn’t get a chance to finish my second cup of coffee- instead, I dumped it into a travel mug to take with me as I sprinted to the driveway in the pouring rain, hastily packed lunch bag banging against my knee, my “mom purse” (a large Vera Bradley tote stuffed with reading materials, makeup, my wallet, phone, and Kindle) weighing down my right arm. It was then that I noticed that two of my boys had locked my car doors and I couldn’t get in out of the pouring rain. (Insert expletives of your choice here. Be creative. Be very, very creative, because in my head, I was having a four -letter- word field day.)
It was then and there, my friends, that I decided I am most definitely NOT a morning person. After all I’d gone through, optimistically experimenting with a new method to make our day flow more smoothly, I’d actually made it worse by trying to get ahead.
And so tomorrow morning, my friends, you will find me hiding under the covers until approximately the very last second.