Perhaps to punish me for the puppy-induced stupor in which I spent the late afternoon yesterday, I had to go to work this morning, even though it’s Saturday and I’m pretty sure Jesus died so that I wouldn’t have to work on Saturdays (or something like that, I didn’t go to Sunday school because I also assume Jesus would want me to sleep in). In fact, I actually had to be there about an hour earlier than usual, just to make it extra cruel.
I’d like to point out, for the record, that everyone told me that it would become easier to get up in the morning once I had small children. I want to let you all know right now that this is a lie, and people who perpetuate this travesty of the truth should be severely punished. It is never easier to wake up in the morning. Unless your version of “the morning” doesn’t start until 10:00 AM.
But I did manage to drag myself up and out of bed by the appointed time, at least taking solace in the fact that I didn’t also have to get the children ready. In fact, my plan was to sneak out of the house without them even knowing I was gone– everyone would sleep in a little, there would probably be a cute father-daughter montage of snuggles, pillow fights and French-toast preparation, and they’d hardly even notice my absence. Considering the lengths to which I had to go to wake them up on weekdays– I’ve considered getting one of those one-man-band get-ups just to help expedite matters, although it still probably wouldn’t work on Addie– I considered this plan pretty foolproof.
This was immediately ruined the second I opened my eyes after rinsing the conditioner out of my hair to find Rosie plastered against the glass of the shower door like a zombie seeking brains. My shrieking then woke up Addie, so then, for no reason, both children were awake before 7:00. On a Saturday. When I had to leave.
I tried to sneak out, I really did. But as soon as I started putting on my boots, Rosie had to go put on her boots. And Addie was announcing very loudly ever 15 seconds or so that she REALLY NEEDED A RICE KRISPIE TREAT PLEASE, THANK YOU, like some sort of terrible breakfast Amber Alert, and my poor husband had barely woken up, and Rosie wanted to know why I was wearing boots and not Crocs and demanded that I change them and HEY WHERE ARE YOU GOING WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING YOU CAN’T LEAVE WITHOUT ME MOMMY THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE I WILL CUT YOU!
Finally, fifteen minutes late and scared for my life, I managed to escape to the garage, Rosie’s manic wailing still ringing in my ears. It apparently continued until she passed out some time later, my husband informed me through a series of increasingly desperate text messages.
I read these texts while eating a chocolate chip muffin, unencumbered by little hands, surrounded by adults who were fully clothed and didn’t want me to play Jungle Baby Animals with them. It occurred to me then that even though I was the one who had had to get up early and physically drive to another location, it was my husband who really had to work on a Saturday.