It’s 7:45 am and I’ve already had a better day than you.
I woke up at 6:30 (even though I am NOT a morning person) so that I could get everyone ready for school. Apparently my children think I enjoy this process . . . that I like waking up before the sun to try to convince other little versions of myself that they should also get up before the sun. Before I could do that, however, I had to clean the dog pee off my bedroom floor.
Our geriatric dog, whom we adore, by the way, is 15 years old. That’s pretty old for a dog, and I understand that perhaps all his “functions” are not what they used to be. It seems we have regressed to the point of puppyhood. He pees whenever and wherever he feels like it. And he’s deaf. So even though he knows he’s not supposed to pee in the house, he’ll go to the middle of the bedroom floor and pee. He doesn’t even lift his leg anymore, and he starts walking away before he’s even done, so he leaves a little yellow pee trail in his wake. He’s like, f*ck it, I’m too old for this sh*t. Since he’s deaf, I can be running towards him, yelling his name, and clapping to try to get his attention, but he just continues peeing. We also think he’s pretty blind, so he may think he’s outside for all we know.
OR he knows exactly where he is, he knows it’s not pee-pee time, and he hears us yelling at him, but he’s paying us back for 15 years of making him wait until daylight to go outside and pee in the rain.
After arguing with Small about which tshirt to wear underneath his sweatshirt . . . you know the one that nobody will see because it’s under your flippin’ sweatshirt so it really doesn't matter! . . . I go wake up Medium. Medium and I are cut from the same cloth. He is snuggled up under his comforter with his stuffed animal and he’s in a deep sleep even though his alarm is going off and has been doing so for approximately 15 minutes. I try all the sweet wake-you-up techniques: whispering, rubbing his back a little, tickling his feet, but then I’ve gotta go because I’ve got sh*t to do so I grab both his feet and pull while he tries to grab on to the sideboard. He’s out of bed now, so that’s one step closer to the bus.
By the time I get downstairs, Large is telling me that the dog has puked on the carpet. Large, who is 12 years old and is fully capable of cleaning up dog vomit, is stuffing his craw with cereal while watching the dog lick his own regurgitated stomach contents. Mind you, it’s only about 7 am at this point, and I’m already cleaning up round two of bodily fluids that are leaving my dog from both ends. At this point, Hubby and I are waiting until the dog goes so that we can re-carpet the entire house. He’s left his mark, literally, everywhere, and the previous owners had twin girls . . . and white carpet. So really it is just a matter of time.
I assume that Small has gotten something to eat for breakfast, but I can’t worry about it now because it’s 7:04 – time to head to the bus stop. We head out the front door and I notice it’s sprinkling, so I do what any selfless mother would do: I send them ahead while I go back inside to get myself an umbrella. By the time I get to the bus stop, the bus is pulling up, so I didn’t even get to give them a snuggle goodbye. No worries though – Small gets back off the bus (which the other school bus and the two car drivers behind our bus totally appreciated, I’m sure) while yelling, “can’t have food on the bus” and handing me something. He’s a rule-follower, that one. I grab his food and wave goodbye. Was is a banana peel, you ask? Perhaps some wheat toast or a small bowl of whole-grain cereal?
Milk dud. And that’s why I’m winning Tuesday.