Routine

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My amazing and funny sister sent me this article yesterday, regarding the morning habits of female moguls and trendsetters. It’s all very Lean In and fascinating and really makes you think about your morning routine.

And how seriously lacking it is.

For instance, something called “ashtanga yoga” is a.) a thing and b.) helpful. Huh.  I don’t do ashtanga yoga, but I do…well, not a lot. I jog to the mailbox sometimes if it’s cold and I was too lazy to go upstairs to get my shoes. But, uh, that’s it.

Um. Let’s see what else…breakfast! I can do that! They all make time for a nutritious breakfast. I make time for breakfast (we can quibble about how nutritious it is later) every day! Mostly because otherwise my Prozac makes me nauseous. And that makes me feel pregnant. Which makes me anxious. Which makes me want more Prozac. It’s a vicious cycle that a bowl of Special K can cut off so yes! I do make time for breakfast. Ha!

Here is the rest of my morning routine. Also known as “why I will never be a mogul.”

5:15- Alarm goes off. Ignore.

5:30- Alarm goes off again. Drool a little and ask husband if it’s the cuddle alarm* or the real alarm. Real alarm. Swear. Grumble.

5:31- Wonder if I the fact that I’m so tired is because I’m pregnant. Ask husband if he thinks that’s the case. He assures me that I am not pregnant (whew, back to the prozac and wine) and the actual children in the next rooms are the reason I’m so tired and not the phantom ppd anxiety baby I’ve created. This makes sense.

5:32- Demand that husband shower first and leave the water running while he comes and gets me because the thought of even turning that dial is too much to handle. Also that’s like 90 more seconds of sleep I could get.

5:40- Shower, makeup, get dressed, clean up bathroom upstairs and master bedroom

6:00- Get downstairs, make cup of coffee. Unload dishwasher, clean up kitchen from the mysterious overnight mess-making that always seems to happen. Forget about coffee.

6:15- Warm up coffee for the first time. Clean whatever part of the house needs it the most. Forget about coffee

6:30- warm up coffee the second time. Drink a few sips of it while saying a few uninterrupted sentences to husband. Ask what time he thinks he’ll be home that night. Add 45 minutes for good intentions. Decide what time I can start drinking wine. Say goodbye to husband.

6:35- Emails, permission slips, mail, whatever random crap comes across my desk, while shouting, “No you can’t get up yet be quiet don’t wake your brother!”

6:45- Brother is officially awakened, go upstairs and get daughter. Pretend like saying “yes” when she asks to watch PBS is a unique occurrence and not something that happens every day. Gather up her clothes so that I can dress her manually like I did when she was 18 months old. Because kindergarten is that stressful. Get son up, and dressed in the first outfit of the day because he has my kidneys wets through the biggest size Pampers makes and OH MY GOD HE’S ONLY SIXTEEN MONTHS WHAT THE HELL.

7:00- Give son water and Cheerios so he can see how far he can throw them this morning. We’re not great with nutrition, but are working super hard on fine motor skills!

7:02- Ask daughter what she wants for breakfast. Am told she wants to think about it.

7:05- Ask daughter what she wants for breakfast. Am told she wants to think about it.

7:08- Ask daughter what she wants for breakfast. Am told she wants to think about it.

7:10- Ask daughter what she wants for breakfast AND WE’RE GETTING DRESSED IN TWENTY MINUTES SO YOU HAVE TO ANSWER ME SERIOUSLY. Am asked “what are my options?”

7:11- All options are rejected in favor of something in the shape of a duckie. I don’t even know. As a consolation prize, she’ll probably eat a bagel. Maybe. She’ll see after I make it.

7:14- The bagel is accepted, as long as she can eat it in the family room, with the coffee table pushed up to the sofa, and tucked in with blankets. Again, I pretend this doesn’t happen every day because it makes me feel like a better mother.

7:20- Begin first feeding of son. He gags as I open the baby food container. Ah. Always a good sign.

7:30- Finish feeding of son after he finishes all the food and/or starts to retch. On a good day it stays down and he goes running off to destroy some other part of the house. On a bad one we puke, strip, and move on to breakfast/outfit number two.

7:39- Start car. Because we live on Hoth, apparently.

7:40- Tell daughter it’s time to get dressed. And by get dressed I mean stand there watching Curious George while I dress you. She runs away to hide behind the couch. Ah. Mornings. I’m going to miss this next year when we homeschool.

7:41- Physically demand that daughter allow me to get to dressed. After some whining, she acquiesces. Just to be clear, she’s not happy about it. There will still be the squawks, screeches, random shrieks, and of course, the “MOMMY THE BUTTONS ARE TOUCHING MY SKIN!” dance we have to do around the living room for a few minutes.

7:46- Begin the hair combing process. Just like women were mercifully unconscious during childbirth in the 1950s, it’s perhaps best that we draw the curtain over this part of the morning.

7:50- Waddle to the car in our outerwear. Scream a little. Say that our safety restraints are too tight. Balk when I say that they have to be tight to protect her. Declare that dying in a fiery highway crash is probably preferable to the horror of that strap touching my neck.

7:52- Back over the garbage. Every week.

7:58- Cruise past school to see if the “valet service” (older kids who will walk our baby kids into the classroom) is staffed by girls (who are old and cool and may as well be Anna and Elsa for all Eva cares) and I can keep the car on and the baby inside and pull easily away into traffic or boys (who are old but scary and uh-uh mommy, I want you to take me in) and I have to circle the block and use death trap they refer to as a parking lot. Boys. Of course.

8:01- Park car, get son out, unbuckle daughter. Try to ignore the fact that she’s refusing to go in. Assure her she’ll have fun. Assure her I’ll come back for her. Assure her all will be well.

8:03- Pull daughter out of the car, and walk in to school, dodging cars and bikes, and a few horse-drawn carriages, I don’t know.

8:05- Get inside, take daughter’s coat off. Feel badly looking at the pictures on the wall because I was supposed to drop off a picture of daughter from the summer but I never got around to it and now like every kid has their picture up except mine *sigh*.

8:06- Pull son out of the kindergarten room. The one I’m spending thousands so she can attend can’t be ripped away from the doorframe; her brother decides it’s his life’s goal to be in K4.

8:08- Kiss daughter goodbye. Reassure her that I will come back.

8:10- Get son strapped in the car. Attempt to get out of parking lot.

8:11- …

8:12- …

8:14-…

8:15- Finally pull onto a road.

8:30- Get to my mom’s where she takes care of my son and I can actually drink a cup of coffee.

I don’t know why I don’t have time to form a multi-national corporation or anything.

*Yes we have a cuddle alarm. Shut up. We have a great marriage.

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One thought on “Routine

  1. Pingback: Keeping the Crazy Under Control | The Agony and the Ecstasy

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