Mornings are ALWAYS hectic in this house. Even if I get up at 5:00 am, which almost never happens. I end up yelling at people, cursing, and rushing around like a contestant on a horrible 80s game show. (Super Market Dash...eeek) Things are a bit more intense since the birth of my 2nd child, Caisley (Yeah I using their names now). When I say more intense I need you to understand the severity of that statement. We're talking choosing the final showcase on the Price Is Right intense. Stakes are high, emotions are higher, time is limited...you get the picture.
Up to this point I felt like inspite of the intensity and almost daily failure, the Hubs and I had adjusted to the pressure and confusion of getting four souls out of the house quite nicely. Colver, my oldest, is only late to school like once every 2 weeks! (Parents of the Year!)
Our morning routine goes a little like this:- 5:00 am - Alarms sound at 5:00 am and are promptly snoozed.
- 5:15 am to 6:15 am - Alarms sound while the Hubs and I sleep through them oblivious to all responsibility or the panic our future selves will soon ensure.
- 6:30 am - David, my husband, finally hears an alarm and starts to try to wake me up.
- Sometime between 6:35 am and 6:50 am - I finally come back to the land of living and immediately begin to panic because I have overslept by no less than an hour and half, yet again.
Waking the Zombie Mom is literally a daily thing. Waking up is really hard for me.
David is in charge of lunches, bottles, and most importantly coffee. Once I'm finally up I have to get me and the two kids ready and out of the house by 7:15 am. (Yeah like in a total of 30 minutes! I know I have no one to blame but myself. I, however, chose to blame the Sandman. He made me sleepy. It is his fault.) Oh, and I am haven't had any coffee!! Did I mention that I am not a nice person or a morning person, and coffee is pretty much the only thing that makes me a nice person. Like seriously, without it I am pretty much Cruella Deville. David once referred to me as a "CrackAssadon", because apparently before I have my coffee I am the fiercest and most vicious dinosaur ever to walk the face of the earth and may or may be capable of eating my young.
GET TO THE POINT! (Okay, I am getting there. I have had like 3 classes of wine and "Christmas Vacation" is on so I keep getting distracted). I need for you understand my universe, that way when you judge me I feel like it is with my blessing. It won't cut as deep that way.
So, Colver should be able to take care of business himself...SHOULD BE ABLE TO! He doesn't! He is like the poster child for ADD. So I normally spend 80% of my already limited energy yelling at him to put his pants on his butt instead of his head. However, this particular morning was different. In hindsight it was at this moment I should have known it was too good to be true.
David was in the shower...Colver was sitting next to me on the bed, completely dress, shoes and all...I was showered and completely dressed (I didn't have make up on. Let's not be ridiculous). I was even in a good mood. Things were going so well! (DUNDUNDUUUUUNNNNNN!)
Caisley. Caisley, my beautiful daughter. My beautiful 9 month old daughter, with hair down past her shoulders. Yes, past her shoulders people! Caisley was dressed and all that was remaining was her hair. All the was standing between me and mastering my universe was a ponytail. Simply pulling her hair up into a ponytail. That should be easy...except for she is 9 months old and like her mother...is a complete b***h. No. Seriously, she is gigantic B! Who knew the attitude started this early. Not me! I thought daughters were adorable creatures, made of sugar and spice and everything nice; sent for their mother to adore. You know who knew? My mother! She didn't tell me either. She just sits back and cackles at my misery, like the witch that she is (wink wink).
My daughter has hair down past her shoulders at 9 months old. I am not sure all of you will understand that statement, but let's just say there are 3 years olds with less hair. Everyday I have to put it in a ponytail to keep it from getting tangled. Just a ponytail. Thats all, a ponytail. Caisley doesn't like having her did, not one bit. This particular day her screams had reached a new level, like serial killer chasing you up the stairs level. Everytime I tried to swoop the hair up she would scream as though she had been bitten by a snake. When I tried to wrap the rubber band around it to secure it she would arch her back in protest and grunt like a caveman. I was frustrated, and I hadn't had any coffee!
I pleaded with Caisley. I begged her, "Caisley, please! Please, just a ponytail. I just need...be still. Caisley! Stop! NO Caisley! Caisley enough of this! Caisley Stop! Caisley! I swear! I am going to sell you!" (Oh I felt better for saying that too, which really only makes it worse.)
I was focused on my conquest, despite the protests of my daughter. Things moved in slow motion. Daughter kicks. Mom unrelenting swoops hair into ponytail shape. Daughter screams and grunts. There were tears and gnashing of teeth. Mom undeterred fastens rubber band around ponytail. VICTORY! Victory is so sweet!...The room fell silent. The silence was deafening...
"OH NO! Baby! Mommy would NEVER sell your sister! Or you! Mommy loves you both! Mommy was just...frustrated."
"Mommy?! You said!...That's called being a bully Mommy!" (Ouch!)
My mom ego deflated pretty quickly. I spent the entire ride to school that morning apologizing for being a bully and promising Colver to never sell his baby sister.
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