I have everything laid out for my morning commute. Miss C’s Hannah Montana backpack is on the kitchen table and I have packed her lunch. The sound of coffee brewing is my morning sountrack. Everything goes according to my morning plan, until Miss A slowly emerges from her bedroom, her bare feet padding softly on the hardwood floors and I am greeted with the sight of a heavy Pull Up that has undoubtedly leaked on to her white eyelet trimmed sheets. I curse under my breath, but see her face drop. She hugs me, her long curly brown hair tousled, her eyes still sleepy. We both smell like pee now, but it’s OK.
This house is home. Lately I feel like it is a crazy chaotic mess, offset by small clusters I have organized in an attempt to regain control. Like a pair of old shoes, it is scuffed. I find myself continually frustrated as I once again step on a Littlest Pet Shop toy, and gather up stray shoes, cups, and make repeated pleas to the girls to pick up after themselves. But it is home.
Finally I am out the door with Miss C and on the way to school, only a few minutes off schedule. She has worn her favorite striped wide headband with a blue polo shirt for the day with her favorite khakis and is clutching her pink and lavender ballerina lunchbox. After I drop her off at school and wave and yell out my familiar “I love you baby! Have fun!” I head down the highway to make the 9-mile commute to work. I scan through the local radio stations and decide to crank a Jimmy Buffett CD. I roll down the windows and open the sunroof to soak up the sunshine and reveal a blue sky.
My life is an unpredictable series of comedies in error, of good intentions railroaded by potty incidents and fevers of unknown origin and fly by the seat of my pants parenting. I am slowly learning to embrace the chaos, though, because it means I have a house full of life, not to mention dirty laundry and dog hair.