This morning was not one of my finer mommy moments.
The stress levels at Casa Donnelly are a little higher than usual right now, with daddy recovering from Friday’s back surgery, family and an extra four-legged friend in town to help, and home-buying woes (a story for another day).
As moms, we try to keep it together during the good and bad. If you graded my performance this morning, I’d be afraid to see the results.
I’ll paint a picture:
We arrive at daycare. I’m running late and enter like a tornado, complete with 3 oversized bags plus one tot in tow.
I put him down and walk over to the kitchen area to unpack his lunchbox. As I’m closing the gate, I hear a panicked “DON’T CLOSE IT!!!” behind me.
Thankfully, I stopped the door just in time. I almost caught his two precious little fingers in the door.
I give him a hug, carefully close the door and start unpacking his lunchbox. Then, I notice something’s missing.
Where’s his breakfast?
I re-examine the contents of his lunchbox. Not there.
I check his other bag with his clean linens. Nope.
I check my work bag. In my haste, maybe I shoved it in there? Not so much.
It must’ve never made it into the lunchbox this morning.
By the time I realize this, one of his teachers had already put him in his highchair. CRAP! What do I do? What do I say? What’s he going to eat?
Meanwhile, he starts crying. Great…
I feel my face getting beet red. I look at his lunch and try to think of suitable breakfast combinations. Banana and string cheese? Banana and applesauce? Banana and cookies?
I turn around and fess up. “So yeah… I forgot his breakfast,” I sheepishly admit.
Thankfully, they remind me that I had some Cheerios there for situations like these.
I give a quick goodbye, rush out the door and head to the office. I can’t help but think about what happened. “How can you forget his food??? Come on, you’re better than that!”
When I arrive at my desk, I open my bag and see another reminder of my frazzled state. But this one brings a smile to my face.
How does that adorable little foot fit into this tiny shoe?
Before Jack, retail therapy was really shoe therapy, and meant I spent way too much money on the latest pair of heels that I’d undoubtedly scuff up after only a wear or two.
Now, it has a whole new meaning.
I think about my little man happily chomping away at his back-up meal. He doesn’t know the difference.
And I think, today might be ok after all…