It’s another lavishing day of the kids waking up to the waft of a fresh batch of scones, lemon curd and freshly squeezed orange juice while I relaxingly pick away on my laptop in my stylish home office, surrounded by mementos of my world travels and full of inspiration. I am halfway into my second cup of un-interrupted coffee poured from my press. I’ve got my French café music subtly drifting in the background, and my hair has once again has fallen perfectly into place. I’m pretty sure that in spite of my love of baking, the scale says I have dropped another 5 pounds. Bliss.

Errrr, no.

It’s the second morning in a row that my middle son has woken me up in the wee hours of the morning for various reasons… fever… bad dreams, etc. There is no room for him, since his baby brother is already in my bed, so to get him back in his bed I am demoted to the empty bunk. I’m exhausted. I am purposefully ignoring the alarm clock, because I don’t want to face the fact that in less than an hour I need to wake my oldest son and start the morning scramble to get everyone off to school on time. Everyone that is- except my daughter who has apparently caught the bug that her brother had just the night before. Note to self: make sure to call the school for an excused absence. Even with my best planning, it always seems like a lot of uninvited chaos in the morning. Did I mention it’s still snowing- in April? And so, I refuse to start the rat race until absolutely necessary.

I throw my hair up in my signature folded pony tail/half-bun thing. (Is that an appropriate hairstyle for someone in their 40’s?) I refuse to step on any scale- I know the truth. After the mad rush, which results in a meal of cereal and milk (nothing out of the oven), I grab a high protein granola bar for myself and take my first drink of coffee. I decide to put off the day’s round of dishes and laundry, and really attempt to jot a few things down for my blog at the highly kid-accessible kitchen table full of remnants of breakfast and action figures. It’s right about the time when I get cooking- figuratively, when the patient needs water… the potty trainer needs assistance in the bathroom… both kids need a snack… you know the drill.

And it is after all of this time, when I feel comfortable sitting at the computer again knowing that my daughter has had a bite to eat and medicine for her small grade fever; and that her baby brother should be both satisfied with his hunger and “emptied out” for the time being when he brings me a piece of poop that he has reserved for his big boy underpants after just going to the bathroom 10 minutes prior. Because I am who I am, I freak out holding his hand high into the air in my most sanitary march into the bathroom. The “piece” is disposed of and his hands scrubbed. His pants are placed in the dirty clothes basket and underwear thrown away. (I am not going to try and spot clean this.) We have the discussion about placing all the poo into the potty and I sit down thrice more. It takes only a few seconds this time for him to retrieve a second piece of poop to which now I realize was not from a butt scratching, but a separate pile that was actually mounded onto the floor. To make matters more complicated, it is also clear that he has stepped in the pile and traipsed it through… that’s a good question. This in turn results in another hand scrubbing, a foot scrubbing, a second lesson about not touching poop, and a new teaching on telling mommy where the poop is. I then mop the floor from the toy room, through the living room and all the way through the bathroom- including a little spot cleaning the living room rug. Did I get it all? I really don’t know. I’ll probably come unglued the next few times one of my kids tries to eat a fallen snack from off of the floor. (I’m a work in progress). However, I did gain writing material… Fabulous. I’ll take it.