With both my daughters, I've been blessed with good sleepers.
I can pretty much count on 12-hour stretches each night with the potential of 13 to 14 hours on the weekends. So me sleeping 'til 8 a.m. on Saturdays is kind of a given and 9 a.m. is almost an expectation.
Every now and then, though, one of the girls will throw a wrench into my schedule.
At 5:45 a.m. this past Saturday, Lola comes bouncing into my bedroom, "Hi Mommy! Is it time to get donuts?"
The day before, I'd told Lola that if she was a good girl (my aunt was babysitting), I'd consider taking her and Millie downtown for some doughnuts in the morning.
So there she was, eyes wide, hopeful, so darned happy.
It wasn't even 6 a.m. yet.
I muttered something about it being way too early and drew the covers over my head.
But by then the dog was up, pacing around on the bed, needing to go to the bathroom.
And was that Millie I heard playing in her crib?
Stalling, I rolled over and my right cheek landed directly in a nice ol' puddle of puppy puke.
And I knew I was at a crossroads.
At this point, I had two choices. One, let myself get really, really annoyed and crabby. My day was starting way too early and the whole 4-5 seconds I had been (mostly) awake, it wasn't going well at all.
Or, I'd have to dig deep, find some leftover energy somewhere that could propel us all forward for a little bit longer; I just need enough positiveness to last until Ray got home, hopefully by 7 p.m.
It took a few moments. But I did find it.
I laughed off - and washed off - the puppy's mess on my face and stripped the bed, getting the first of nine loads of laundry into the machine.
I got Lola started on her morning routine and got Millie out of her crib.
I got the puppy outside and the cat fed.
I knew I'd need a little pick-me-up and nothing gets me energized like exercise. So, within the hour, the kids were packed into the stroller and we'd started the two-mile trek downtown. (Yes, I know my older daughter is 5 and doesn't need to be in the stroller, but I was aiming for an actual workout, not a stroll. My goal was 15-minute miles and I couldn't do that with a dawdling youngster.)
We got downtown, bought some donuts for the girls and I, then, let them play a while at a favorite park.
I was feeling pretty good: Look at me, being all awake and invested before 8 a.m. And without a Caribou.
After a while, we headed toward home, but we took the long way, because I just had to register five whole miles. (That was sarcasm.)
About halfway there, I was booking it pretty good, on pace when I got a text from Ray. Not wanting to slow down, of course, I went to retrieve my cell phone from my back pocket. I kind of half-flipped it to my fingers, but I missed. I felt myself lose grip.
It went end over end, in the air, as I reaced fruitlessly to grab hold.
It landed, face-first, on the sidewalk.
I knew before I picked it up that it had shattered.
Sure enough, its screen looked like my windshield after a run-in with a large rock.
"Daddy's going to be mad at you!" Lola said.
I destroyed my last cell phone about six months ago, after dropping it in water.
This one was only about three months old.
Luckily, the phone is still operable - a little duct tape is holding the battery cover in place and the screen while splintered is still letting me text.
Ray has gotten more more used to my "I love you lots! Oh by the way..." texts so he wasn't mad as much as humored.
But I was still annoyed. Luckily, my contract is up this week so I should be able to get a new cell phone this weekend. (Hopefully this one will last me til at least Christmas for crying out loud...)
More than anything, though, I was ready for Ray to come home. And he did just that, arriving just in time to put the girls to bed that night.
Fortunately for all of us, the rest of the weekend went much more smoothly.
The kids even let us sleep 'til 8:30 a.m. on Sunday.
- Bethany :)