Thursday, December 04, 2003
My morning
6:00AM precisely. My alarm clock (which I set faithfully each night) buzzes. I stretch out an arm and shut it off. I turn over and go right back to sleep (as I do every morning). I awaken at 6:40AM. Late.
After performing the necessary ablutions, I awaken the Amazing One at 7:00AM. She begs for "just a few more minutes." I, being a compete wuss where she is concerned, allow her this luxury. Also, the skirt that I've unearthed from a pile of clothes in the corner is wrinkled. I have to iron it. Now, I'm even later.
I slap together a not so healthy breakfast for the fruit of my womb. It's 7:20AM now. We have to leave the apartment in 20 minutes. I start yelling at my blessed event. "Hurry up!" and the like. She and I both start getting dressed. No delicious Mommy-made lunch for her today. Nope. She'll have to make do on the allegedly healthy and nutritionally balanced school lunch.
It's 7:30AM. I dash across the hallway into her room in my Jockeys to berate her into getting dressed faster. I search through her embarrassingly untidy lingerie (do eight-year olds have lingerie?) drawer for an undershirt. I pause to adjust said Jockeys. She says, "It's okay, Mommy. I'll just blot that out."
Ouch. Is all.
6:00AM precisely. My alarm clock (which I set faithfully each night) buzzes. I stretch out an arm and shut it off. I turn over and go right back to sleep (as I do every morning). I awaken at 6:40AM. Late.
After performing the necessary ablutions, I awaken the Amazing One at 7:00AM. She begs for "just a few more minutes." I, being a compete wuss where she is concerned, allow her this luxury. Also, the skirt that I've unearthed from a pile of clothes in the corner is wrinkled. I have to iron it. Now, I'm even later.
I slap together a not so healthy breakfast for the fruit of my womb. It's 7:20AM now. We have to leave the apartment in 20 minutes. I start yelling at my blessed event. "Hurry up!" and the like. She and I both start getting dressed. No delicious Mommy-made lunch for her today. Nope. She'll have to make do on the allegedly healthy and nutritionally balanced school lunch.
It's 7:30AM. I dash across the hallway into her room in my Jockeys to berate her into getting dressed faster. I search through her embarrassingly untidy lingerie (do eight-year olds have lingerie?) drawer for an undershirt. I pause to adjust said Jockeys. She says, "It's okay, Mommy. I'll just blot that out."
Ouch. Is all.
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