Happy hock a loogy day

It’s amazing-slash-crazy (cramazing?) to me how everything that happens in my day leads to the next thing happening and the next thing leads to the next thing like dominoes clattering to the floor in a line, until finally on the weekend we go around the room and set each domino upright again to get ready for the big push on Monday morning. For example, right now I am writing this instead of folding the clothes on my bed, which means that I’ll probably have to stay up 10 extra minutes to actually have a place to sleep (unless I just dump them in a heap on the floor … which, I’m not going to lie: It’s an option.), which means I’m in danger of waking up late in the morning, which means I’ll be late getting out the door, which means I’ll be later to work, which means I’ll be later to leave, which means I’ll be later picking up the kids, which means I’ll be more rushed to get dinner on the table, which means I might be late for rehearsal, which means I should have folded those clothes instead of typing words. Like these two. Weekdays feel like a race (which, as you know, I am totally qualified to be an authority about, seeing as how I ran a whole entire one that one time)—I blast off the blocks the first day, the second day I’m still peppy but slowing, and by Wednesday I’m dragging, shuffling along like an old man and hocking loogies off into the bushes. (Sorry. I spit when I run.) Thursday I kind of feel like I’ve rounded the corner and can see the Finish banner way in the distance, and Friday I make the final push at full sprint, lungs bursting and feet splatting against the pavement all the way across the line. Then I go and pick up one of the fallen dominoes and gingerly balance it back up on its end.

Whoa. That’s a whole lot of running analogy all at once. What I really wanted to say was: tonight I am tired.

I have finally become better about selecting clothes to wear before I go to sleep at night (clarification: I am better at DOING that, not better at the actual selection. I feel the need to say that for anyone who may have seen me in person this week and is now thinking, “Oh. So you meant to put that shirt with those pants, then. Huh.), which shaves a good 15 minutes off my getting ready time in the morning. This week I’ve been packing my lunch ahead of time, too, and making sure that all my ducks are in a row—things like my cell phone (put it in my bag), Noah’s behavior sheet from school (sign it, put it in his bag), Rosie’s outfit (select it, select a back up for when she freaks out about the first one, select a back up-back up for when she freaks out about the second one), and Rosie’s milk cup (fill it, put it in fridge, pray to God I don’t forget it in the car all day like that one day last week). Et cetera.

And when you do all that preparation-y stuff, it’s really great. Stellar. Responsible, even! But good as it is, it won’t get you shit in the morning if the toddler ain’t into cooperating. And when you’ve been at it for some weeks, as I have, you’ll be able to tell how it’s going to go down just from the tone of the first mumbled incoherent sentence of the morning. All it takes is that tiny voice hitched up into a certain register and you know: you’re gonna be late for tonight’s rehearsal.

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