10th August, 2018
Red flags have gone up this morning. The rage has come back. And this time the return is quite impressive. Return of the Mack has nothing on this, dude. I have no idea where it has even come from. It started with my desire for an early-morning shower. (Perhaps I am getting the message here that I'd be better staying in bed in the mornings and abandoning attempts at the Fly Lady routine.)
So I decided to delegate the care of the two tinies to Michael for this rarest of rare occasions. I was called down, about ten minutes later, with an urgent tone and volume. I assumed Michael needed to head off to make his train to work, and thought not much of it. Until I came down to see that Isaac was being changed by Michael, and the poo on his babygro was not his...but Luna's. For some unknown reason, the cat had decided to poo -a lot - on the rug. This was not the smooth start to the day I'd wanted. I'd already woken up feeling ragged round the edges. As is too common these days, I'd fallen asleep, unplanned, half in pyjamas, half dressed, having neither brushed teeth nor washed face, after two bowls of Haagen Daz 'Strawberry Cheesecake' ice cream. My goodness.
And then this morning I woke up, feeling so badly rested, even though I'd drifted off listening to another brilliant Jennifer Fulwiler podcast, at the rather pathetic time of 8.30pm. I could already feel the irritation rising, which is why I'd asked M to take the two, for this rare chance to get 8 or 9 minutes to myself, to slough off the bad mood and inexplicable anger.
So the cat poo everywhere - followed by Michael vomiting because of the smell of it - did not pave the way for this smooth day. No it did not.
And you would think that that was the worst part of the morning. But it wasn't. I could feel the scary level of Rage at Life rising. So I got us all out of the house around 8.10am, or thereabouts. Because this is one of the things that work when nothing else does. The cup of tea had barely touched the sides. This was bad. I knew Mum was coming around half 1, but it felt an eternity off and I just felt like I couldn't get through.
That walk seemed to save me... for a while. But when I got back the tears just did not end - and most of them were mine. Isaac kept crying. Nothing seemed to placate him. It might be that dratted fouth tooth coming through the top. And then I left it to the fatal hour of 11am to start making lunch, with two children intent on crying at full volume, both probably hungry and tired - as was I. Sigh. Timings. Why are they so hard to get right? Food. Why does it feel like such a drag, every day?
It's all about the night routine isn't it. It's about getting dressed for bed properly, sleeping better, making food the day before (such a relief when you manage it!), packing the bag the day before, not eating copious amounts of ice cream the night before...all of that. I feel like I've just about managed getting that morning routine a bit straighter (thank you, FlyLady). But I am so far off with the night-time one. One day... maybe one day... this could change. And I could be the kind of person who bakes my own flapjack and bounces out of bed in the morning, refreshed, knowing it is is downstairs in a tin, waiting for me and my children... next to that avocado, banana and yoghurt smoothie.
We can all dream.