You ever notice how the morning you get up late is the morning when shit just pours down on your head? Yeah. Me too.
It will be the morning you cannot easily find the things you habitually pack in your daughter’s lunches. It will be the morning your 2nd grader will “discover” more homework she didn’t do last night, and your hot tea will go lukewarm while you help her with it. Then you will find that you failed to transfer the laundry from the washer to the dryer and now your Kindergartener has no clean trousers, which will force you to root yesterday’s jeans out of the hamper and check to see if they are not so sullied as to be not wearable, which makes you feel like a Bad Mommy because ewwww your kid is in dirty clothes you slattern. You will be unable to find anyone’s shoes, for lo your children have distributed small sneakers all over Christ and Creation like some sort of footwear confetti.
You will find yourself screaming like a harpy at all three of your precious daughters to, “Hurry! For the love of God just put your jacket on like you’ve done it before, okay?!?” This will also make you feel like a Bad Mommy, and you will wonder if perhaps you have now destroyed their self esteem and they will grow up to become drug-addled talk-radio twatwaffles, living monuments to your failure to raise them right.
After you pile the children into the car, you will realize there is absolutely no way you can avoid the Mommy Walk of Shame … the slinking into the School Office to get tardy notes for your children. You HATE doing this because you know that no matter how nice the school secretary is she is secretly judging you to be the kind of unorganized dipshit who can’t even get your kids to school on time even though you are a stay at home mom and don’t have a real job.
Then, when you hustle the toddler back out toward the van, in the rain because OF COURSE it is raining, you smell an Affront to God and Mankind, which your cute youngest daughter has just unloaded into her diaper. You realize that your nerves are making faint sizzling sounds, and you hope no one else can hear it. That’s when some ginormous asshat in an SUV drives past you as you are strapping your baby into her car seat and splashes muddy, ice-cold puddle-water all over you from the waist down. Mentally, you draw a gun because you are No Longer Amused:
Because your house is between the school and the YMCA (where your toddler’s preschool if fixing to commence) you go home to change her diaper and your wet yoga pants. This delay means you are 10 minutes late to the preschool class, and you have to do another Mommy Walk of Shame to bring your daughter into the room with the rest of the kids … all of whom have Good Mommies who got them there on time.
After this you scurry over to the room your yoga class is held in and peek in, which confirms to you there is no way to get in there and spread out your mat and join the class without being as disruptive as an elephant giving birth in Old Navy. So you take you frazzled ass down to the snack room, grab a booth, and immerse yourself in your writing because the other alternative is to sob and suck your thumb in public.
When you pick up you child at noon, that’s when you remember you HAVE to go to the store or there will be NO dinner for your family that night. Completely demoralized, you swing by Big Store and your toddler screams like she is being burned with cigarettes if you put her in the cart, so you let her walk with you, and then she wants to help you push but she misses her grip and you are not fast enough to keep her from hitting the floor, where she cries in pain and rips your soul with the hot claws of Parental Fail. Everyone in the store turns to look at you, the Bad Mommy, as you clutch your sobbing child and try to comfort her. You finally get the hell out of there, get home, get the baby fed and down for a nap, and start to blog.
That’s when your oldest dog gets volcanic diarrhea on the living room rug.
I’m going to cook chicken soup for the rest of my family, but I am having margaritas for dinner with a Xanax-sprinkled bowl of ice cream for desert.