I loved this idea... so read if you want. Somedays, when people are not stirring in and out of my door, this is my life:
6 a.m. — Wake up briefly, turn over in bed quietly and hope my awakeness doesn't trigger the child-mom instinct in my three-year-old in her bed a few feet away. (We share a room.)
6:02 a.m. — "Moooom?" I hold my breath.
"Moom? Is it awake time?"
"No. It's still night." Silence.
6:45 a.m. — "Mom, I have to go potty," she says from her bed. "Then go," I say into my pillow. I listen to her feet scurry out of the room.
6:47 a.m. — "Mom, I'm done!" she shouts. Who needs an alarm clock?
6:52 a.m. — "Mom, can I play games on your phone?"
"Ummm..." I have yet to actually open my eyes.
"And mom, I'm hungry. Can I have cake? And peanut butter on a spoon? And marshmallows?"
I open one eye and smile at her.
"MOM YOU'RE AWAKE!! IT'S LIGHTY OUTSIDE! WAKE UP!" Yes, she says lighty. It's the cutest thing and how can I not smile at this?
7 a.m. — Must have coffee. Must have coffee. But first, feed the little person.
7:15 a.m. — GET COFFEE IN MY MOUTH NOW. But it's not made. I have to make it. This is the dilemma.
7:17 a.m. — Bring peanut butter on a spoon to child who is eating marshmallow cereal.
7:18 a.m. — Suggest grapes to her because I realize I'm doing a terrible job this morning with the whole nutrition thing.
7:19 a.m. — Deliver grapes.
7:30 a.m. — Scroll endlessly through Twitter and Facebook, because surely something interesting happened since I went to bed last night. But no. Not really. Lots of cute babies and funny grumpy people at 7:30 a.m. though.
7:42 a.m. — Layout clothes in living room for Madeleine's school.
7:42-8:01 a.m. — "Explain" to Madeleine why it's not ok to wear her princess shoes, her rapunzel hair, both tiaras, her pearl beads, and her jeans and hiking boots to school. She cries. She barters.
8:02 a.m. — Explain why we need to change our underwear every day to Madeleine. She is grossed out by herself.
8:03 a.m. — Give her a tutu and
8:12 a.m. — Still no coffee. Where's my coffee? Why has no one made it yet? Oh.
8:20 a.m. — Wash dishes so that I can wash the French press from yesterday afternoon so that I can have coffee.
8:42 a.m. — Press the French press down, smell the wonder of it all, realize I should probably get out of robe and look like a nice person before I leave the house.
8:52 a.m. — Find one of every sock that Madeleine has. All the other matches have deserted ship. Mayday. MAYDAY.
9:01 a.m. — Find other pink striped sock under M's bed. Slip on cowboy boots. Braid hair. Out the door to preschool. STILL NO COFFEE CONSUMED. Lord, have mercy on my addicted soul.
9:15 a.m. — Kiss my little sweet goodbye. Zombie-drive home to the caffeine. Call my mom and listen to her tell me how awesome the beach is. As if I didn't already know.
9:25 a.m. — Partake of hour-old coffee. It is wonderful, just as I hoped. Scroll through twitter, facebook, instagram. Write out to do list. Set limit at 10 items. Write 15 down. Wonder how much of it I'll actually accomplish.
9:42 a.m. — Work. Feel a sense of "I can do this" as I open Illustrator.
9:43 a.m. — Hang my head when I realize I didn't save the latest version.
10:30 a.m. — Respond to client e-mails, finish the small items on my list, talk to my sister on the phone, highlight/circle/star the big to-do items for the day.
11:22 a.m. — Second cup of coffee, luke warm, chugged. Out the door to pick up Madeleine from school.
11:33 a.m. — Listen to stories of toddlerhood. "Mom, CJ said he liked my new shoes." *giggles* Ok, who is this CJ and what is his 30 year plan and is he nice to his mom and will he love you forever and you're not leaving the house again until you're 42.
11:42 a.m. -12:52 p.m. — Run around park. I take a million pictures, of which you will see four if you follow me on Instagram. Madeleine asks why there is a dead cat and dead squirrel in the park. I start with the circle of life conversation, but she's chasing robins before I get to "carnivorous raccoons" and "reckless drivers".
1:18 p.m. — Give her lunch which consists of sandwich, carrot sticks, applesauce, almonds and goldfish. I stand in the kitchen eating cherry tomatoes and fresh mozzarella while staring blankly out window.
1:42 p.m. — Back to work for me. Madeleine watches PBS Kids while she draws on the windows (with window crayons) and glues eye balls to the pine cones we collected at the park.
1:48 p.m. — "Mom, I want to hug you," she says for the 30th time this hour. I'm not exaggerating. All day, every day. "Don't say no. Be a nice person," she reminds me.
2:30 p.m. — MANDATORY QUIET TIME. French press numero dos.
2:30 p.m.-4:48 p.m. —Work. Tackle big monsters. Reply to emails. Feel like a bonafide grown-up.
5 p.m. — Start thinking about dinner. Field questions like, "What is indigo? Are birds omnivores? Why does she say "set fire to the rain"?"
6 p.m. — Dinner. Picnic style. Together. "I bet I can beat you," she says.
"This is not a race," I remind her.
"..... but I'll win," she adds.
6:32 p.m. — Bathe, kid, bathe. You're sticky, your hands are purple, you have chocolate in your ear and glue on your knees.
7:12 p.m. — Stories. Music. Songs. Books. Edelweiss. Prayers. Kisses.
7:42 p.m. — Madeleine wanders out of her room in a princess dress with my lip balm smeared over her face asking for another dinner. I say no. She cries.
7:52 p.m. — I poke my head in her room because I miss her. Tell her I love her. She asks for marshmallows.
8:02 p.m. — Hear the sound of singing from bedroom. Open laptop. Check e-mail. Consider working. Check Hulu to see if there's a new episode of New Girl instead.
8:12 p.m. — Silence.
8:30 p.m. — I wonder where my day went, pull out the guitar, check e-mail, watch Hulu, work on projects. Hit "save" every five minutes.
11:12 p.m. — Read. Consider late night snack. Think better of it and drink water instead.
12:18 a.m. or sometime thereafter — Listen to the city and the sound of my daughter's breathing... sleep.