Sand in my toes, a margarita in one hand and my favourite book in the other. I am on vacation, the breeze from the Mediterranean ocean is melting my stress away. I look up from my book for a moment to see a large cruise ship passing by on the horizon. Then I hear the low bellow of the ship’s horn. I am so refreshed; the horn blows again, and again, and again. Each time it bellows becoming more annoying and reminiscent of my alarm clock.
Shit! SHIT! SHIT! It is my alarm clock!
I grab my phone from the nightstand and try to read the time. My eyes not quite awake, and having a hard time focusing I jump from my bed knowing full well I incorporated that cruise ship horn into my dream long enough to have woken up VERY late. Disoriented and groggy I circle my bedroom paralleling a toddler playing musical chairs. Accomplishing absolutely nothing thus becoming that much-further behind in my morning regimen.
Hopping down the hallway while trying to put on a pair of pants I push my son’s bedroom door open. “Sweetie, I woke up late, it’s 7:05.” Struggling to get both legs in my pants as I open my daughter’s bedroom door, falling flat on my face. “Ugh, Come on babe, we all woke up late.”
Both my kids, unimpressed at this point, groaning the all too familiar teenage groan. I quickly remind them they are teenagers, have alarm clocks and are more than capable of getting up. On. Their. Own. Of course, each of them claiming their alarms did not go off.
As I make my way down the stairs to the kitchen, I realize I am not wearing a shirt or bra. As does the young fellow that lives in my basement suite, now passing by my kitchen window. Grabbing both my breasts I nod at him as we make eye contact. Like deer in headlights, we both stand and look at each other long enough for him to be able to explain the exact size of my breasts to each-and-every one of his twenty-year-old friends. Mortified, I run back upstairs to put some damn clothes on.
Time: 7:09, neither of my kids have made a move. “Get up, let’s go! We are late!” I shout as I run passed their rooms, equally humiliating my son with my exposed breasts. “Ugh! Mom! Put on a shirt.” He says as he looks away with displeasure.
Just as I bellow back “Get in the shower! We have twenty minutes.” I hear the sound of the bathroom door close, and my daughter start the shower. Commencing the all too familiar bathroom fight. Banging on the bathroom door, through the sounds of Taylor Swift and running water, my son begins screaming at his sister. “I have to leave before you; this isn’t fair!” She, of course, hears nothing as she sings Bad Blood at the top of her lungs.
Now, standing in the hallway holding my breasts I throw my son a towel and point him in the direction of my bathroom. “Go shower and make it quick,” my patience is thinning, as I realize I will now have to go without a shower today.
Time: 7:12, still without a shirt, I now find myself rummaging through a heap of unfolded laundry on my bedroom floor. Because let’s be honest laundry is the bane of my existence.
I am certain my purgatory would be endless piles of unfolded laundry.
Once I have successfully dressed myself, I head back down the stairs. Just as my toe hits the bottom step my daughter shouts from the bathroom “Mom, can you get me a towel.” Because grabbing a towel before you shower; is something she hasn’t learned in her thirteen beautiful years on this planet, regardless of how many times I have reminded her. Back up the stairs I go, to hand her a towel, which, by the way, sits in the hall closet RIGHT beside the bathroom she is in!
Time: 7:17. Mood: Frazzled to shit. With six minutes to get my disheveled mess out of the house. I do what any good Mom would do. I grab money from my purse leave it on the counter so my kids can buy themselves a greasy cafeteria lunch. Pull out the milk, a box of cereal, write a quick note telling them I love them and to have a great day.
Just as I am heading out the door, I quickly look at my phone to check where I am at with time, that is when it happened.
It was fucking Sunday!
One day, I may get this parenting thing right.