This morning I was, as usual, running late. Like most days, I was up over an hour before I needed to leave the house, which should be plenty of time to get ready.
I changed both baby girls’ diapers when they got up, then changed them again once they both did, in the words of my mother-in-law, a “big job.”
I filled the sink with water and let the girls splash and play as I brushed my teeth and did my hair and make-up. Then I cleaned up all the water they had splashed around the bathroom.
I pretended to be scared when my son flung open the bathroom door and shouted,
“Surprise!”, even though he had made enough noise rolling out of bed and banging his door shut that our whole block knew he was awake.
I sang “Good Morning To You” to my son, as I usually do, as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Then I re-rolled the toilet paper that the baby girls had pulled off the roll while I was singing and not paying attention.
Then I looked at the clock and realized I should be leaving right then and I still didn’t have my clothes on. “You have to take over, I’m late,” I told my husband. I pulled on my pants and shirt as quickly as I could, then rushed back out to the living room to grad my bag, lunch, and shoes.
“Um…,” my husband said, giving me a funny look, “I think your pants are on backwards.” I looked down and laughed. Sure enough, there were my back pockets in the front.
“I thought they felt a little strange,” I admitted, returning to our room to turn my pants around, laughing at myself. I was already late anyways. What was another few minutes?