When I was about 12 or 13, I started to write all sorts of stories. I wrote a ghost story about my school being haunted. I did scary stories about the woods and conservation areas near my home. I tried my hand at a horror story about a field trip. (Just as a little tip, co-students get pretty freaked out by being killed off in stories. Don’t worry, it was just a phase.) I wrote some fantasy fiction. In fact, I’m still writing some fantasy fiction that sprang up at that time. When short stories become novellas and bloom in to novels, they take a lot of percolating to get them done. It’s like knitting an afghan. I digress.
I wrote hilarious little bits too. There’s one story in my accordion folder that details a crazy camping trip during which my dad crawls into his sleeping bag to find a snake had also thought it a good place to sleep. Total fiction. Never happened. Of course, the description of him screaming like a girl…I couldn’t make that up. Ah, good times.
I also delighted in making up “The Worst Day Ever” scenarios. You know the type: woke up late because the alarm wasn’t set—cold shower—burnt toast—spilled coffee—no gas in car—seriously late for work—miss meeting—catch shit, etc.
This morning was a bit like that. For one blistering hour, I could not seem to get us up, dressed fed and out of the house in a reasonable amount of time. Obstacles just kept leaping up, making it impossible to do simple things. One step forward, one giant leap back.
Fiona was slow getting out of bed. She couldn’t fine the pants she wanted to wear. We’ve all been there. It sucks when you can’t find the pants you wanted (usually because they are standing up all by themselves in the laundry hamper). Then we hunted for a suitable shirt. Found one, but had to cut the tag out downstairs.
Meanwhile Calla is getting the table set (bless that child) so that she could change her mind about toast after it was toasting and had to get a hold of herself under the table before she could settle on rice krispies.
I got the milk in the microwave for hot chocolate. Fiona insisted on picking her own cup and whatever you do, don’t touch the lid. She’s taking care of all that. 4 year olds and their push-pull of “I can/can’t do that! “ I pour the milk before anyone says they want to. Turn around to get the chocolate syrup and hear, “Uh-oh” and “Oh no” simultaneously. A whole cup of hot milk has spilled all over the table, the chair, the floor and Fiona (in her chosen pants). Had to strip her down, get some towels strategically placed for the mopping up, more milk in the microwave to replace the cup that spilled. Oh, and find other pants.
It’s like being a finely tuned juggling machine some days.
And then for no reason I can tell, the cat barfed up her breakfast right beside the table.
Now, most of my previous cats were private pukers. You know the type. Off somewhere in the night when you sort of wake up to that sound. No idea where the cat is. No real sense in looking for it until you’re armed with daylight. Or the cat that barfs up bug bits while you’re at school or work, but does it in a place you’re sure to find…with your be-socked foot…while you’re just about to turn on a light. Yep, that memory is never going away no matter how much therapy I get.
This one is not fussy.
Back to breakfast, just the right amount of milk had to be poured into Calla’s Raisin Bran…enough to cover it. You know that stuff floats, right. Discussion ensued. Then it was too mushy because of all the milk. Tough.
Made coffee. Made my lunch. Navigated dishes into the sink for later. Brushed hair. Brushed teeth. Had to negotiate outdoor clothing, because the sun was shining but the wind still has meat hooks in it and will rip the flesh from little children. Caught shit because I was putting on my vest instead of my heavy winter coat. I was putting on my windproof over it. Timing is everything and you just don’t get it until your older. Kids just have no patience.
Then, we had to race upstairs for a sleep toy. They nap at daycare. Fiona likes to have a friend to sleep with. Hey, who am I to argue with that kind of thinking? She brought three. We negotiate down to one which she then leaves inside the house.
I had to go back into the house 3 times before I started the car. Each time I had to bodily block the cat who was throwing herself at the door like some depraved escape artist.
But in the end I finally managed to get away from the house with my coffee, my lunch, both children and a shred of my sanity. And there is the hope that tomorrow will be better. At least I hope we can avoid the barf. Really, isn’t that all we can ask in a day?