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.
