I’m trying not to be late to work.
This seems like an easy enough task, but when one has to schlep out the door with umteen bags (laptop, purse, nursing-mom supplies, workout clothes), while balancing hot coffee in one hand and half a toasted bagel in the other, not to mention the whole hygeine-showering-teethbrushing thing, then there’s the baby to feed and change and oh, where are my sandals? No, not that pair – the black pair! And oops, the coffee just spilled on the counter and “Honey! Can you please help me clean this up?!!” and “Shhh, shhh, don’t cry little one… Matt, what time is it? I gotta go!” And on the days when I actually try to exercise in the morning, fuh-getta-bout’ it. Mornings are complicated.
Planning is key here, I realize. And I could wake up even earlier – but then there’s the whole I-need-sleep thing and the only “organize life” time I have is late at night and who can get to bed before 11 anyway? And there’s still cat throw up under the bed and two laundry baskets overflowing with whites and delicates and “Dang it! The shirt I want to wear is dirty!” Not to mention there aren’t too many wardrobe options these days as I’m in that weird, losing baby-weight stage (hence the morning work outs).
And so that is that. It’s beautiful and messy and often chaotic – but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
However, I still need to be to work on time.
All this ranting has reminded me of the Phil Vassar song, Just Another Day In Paradise. And I echo Phil’s sentiment:
“I ask the Lord every night for just another day in paradise.”