I don’t think I can do this.
Most mornings I rise without trouble. Sometime in the year or so after being thrust from the cocoon of college into real life where waking early every morning whether I felt like it or not, I realized I preferred to also wake reasonably early on days off, else I’d waste that precious time dozing because I’d stayed up to watch Letterman. Ultimately, the reward of time to truly live the hours I had a choice about trumped the indulgence of sleeping in. As a result, I morphed into a woman for whom 7:45 is late to be getting out of bed on a weekend, and 8:30 was truly decadent.
That was prekids. As a mom, I realized I usually have only control over when I go to bed, so I ensure that I’ll get at least a good 6.5-7 hours before waking before the kids to have that alone time. And I don’t mind it—I like it. I may not be chirpy, but I’m pretty content padding around the kitchen setting up the coffee maker and checking all the online things one checks while the coffee pot gurgles and hisses its way to caffeinated bliss.
So, what I’m saying is this: I don’t usually wake up wanting to stay in bed. Saturday, however, I woke before 6:00 and my first thought was, “I don’t think I can do this.”
This was not just to wake and make a weekend breakfast of bacon and eggs or homemade waffles—and waffles were what I had promise-promise-pinky-swore I’d make because Carter loves them so—but to get us all ready for and away to an adventure we’d been eagerly anticipating for a month: camping. Yet, there I was, throat burning, the cough Cole had been developing without much complaint over the past week clearly coming into its own in my head and chest, deciding this morning it’d be nice to sleep until at least 7:00 or so.
It’s time to wake up! Up! We want to get up and have breakfast!
My littlest friend has other plans, and no amount of me wishing it were not so will change the fact that, one way or another, my butt is getting up. I slug down 2 ibuprofen while making the coffee and a quick snack to tide Cole over until I’m ready to get out the waffle iron and start beating egg whites for the batter and start to make mental lists of everything we will all need, all the while hearing The Brat who resides in all our heads whine to me about the inherent unfairness of life and other whiny bunk that really has no bearing on anything except that The Brat knows I am sick and more susceptible to believing the whines today than most days.
In my idealized mental vision of our camping trip, I’d have had everything ready—or at least located—the day before setting out nice and early, us all singing Kumbaya no doubt.
In reality, I was stressed and grumpy.
I will be calm and happy when we’re there. I have to slog through some edgy places to get there, though.
I told that to myself and anyone who’d listen all morning.
I hate being disorganized and not having ready the things I need in spite of my apparent lack of ability to do otherwise at this point!
I told my husband that a few times over the morning. He helped me with fetching items from high places, ticked me off by insisting I pack that ‘godawful’ (my description) instant coffee—how dare he mess up my tenuous grasp on how I’d get us all to our goal!!—and surely bit his tongue many times as I made those dang waffles and played Tetris with our belongings to arrange them just so they’d all fit. Oh, I was a peach that morning. It’s incredible anyone wanted to go anyplace with me.
All that being said, we got ourselves out, and I was right: once we were there, we were all happy. Sometimes you have to RALLY.
To be continued…