Today did not start well.
I rolled out of bed, kissed my husband goodbye, and attended to the fury of the morning.
We had a pediatrician's appointment at 9am. I ignored the weight of how messy the house was as I fed and dressed the littles before shooing us out the door at 8:25. As I put the baby in her car seat and bribed the toddler to climb into his, I wondered why I hadn't scheduled it at 10 so I could avoid any morning traffic. As I ran back into the house to grab the diaper bag and drink down the last of Jake's yogurt and call it breakfast, I thought about how the difference between getting somewhere at 10am vs 9am is the difference between eating and not eating, stressing and not stressing, starting the diaper laundry or throwing the wet bag into the garage. The difference between 9am and 10am is just HUGE for me. The momentum for a 10am commitment energizes me to be productive in the mornings, while a 9am has me scrambling. I had scheduled this visit two months in advance, so I'm sure I could've managed to swing a 10am. Why hadn't I been more considerate of my future self? What had I been thinking?!
You see where this is going, don't you?
There I stood in front of the receptionist at a well-earned 9:03.
"I have you down for 10 this morning."
But it was all good. We just hopped back in the car (via the elevator, a treacherous parking lot, one car seat, another car seat) and drove to Trader Joe's so I could score more lemons and ginger beer. I determined to turn the day around.
And I did. Circa happy hour.
Git yer own, chickadee.
Git yer own.