My typical week day starts with my alarm going off at 5:45am and me pushing the snooze button till 6:05. I drag myself out one leg at a time wishing I could just call out sick, which I never do because I’m a stickler for rules and the guilt of calling out when I’m not actually ill would bother me. I set my Bruin Patrice Bergeron mentality on and open the bedroom door. There she is. The big gray beast and she’s ready to go out. She probably out-weighs me, and she jumps and jumps all the way to the kitchen. That’s were a few of my hip-checks are necessary. I knew I used to watch hockey for a reason, otherwise I would be on the floor. I get the dogs out the door and fed, and then I get ready for work.
I have to be out of the house by 7:10. My oldest will usually get up around 6:45, the middle one some times needs a nudge, and the little guy….oh that little guy. He keeps me up constantly at night, but when it’s time to get up and get out the door he’s not hearing it. He pulls the covers back over him, he yells at me, and curls up in the fetal position. He just wants more sleep. What I am confused about is that on the weekend, such as this morning, he’s up at 6:00am! Do toddlers not understand the concept of “weekend?” Seriously. He would sleep till 7:30/8:00 on the week day if I let him. I know I’m being whiney, but it’s just not fair! I truck through those grueling five days of work to get that extra hour of sleep. I spent 6:00am to 7:00am laying in bed being jumped on, poked, and kissed by a two-year old. Motherhood at its finest. Is someone playing tricks on me?