It’s 8:45 a.m., and I’m pulling out of the driveway for the
fourth time this morning. I’ve guzzled a quart of water. I’ve done dozens of
sit-ups, push-ups, jump squats, and burpees. I’ve strengthened my core and
conditioned my hair. I’ve brushed three other heads of hair and put in
ponytails. I've checked the weather forecast. I’ve changed clothes three times and shoes twice. I’ve considered ironing and come to my senses. I’ve skimmed a chapter in the Gospel of Luke, knowing I’ve got
six hours of intense Bible study ahead so I’m not feeling so bad about my
skimming. I have prayed every time I’ve been in the car. I’ve returned several
emails, edited a half-page of copy, and sent out the notes for the 6th grade graduation party.
I’ve packed three lunches—two of which look yummy, but sadly, neither of these
is mine. I’ve unloaded last night’s clean dishes from the dishwasher, loaded
the new ones from this morning’s breakfast, and plopped a pork roast in the
crockpot for dinner tonight. I’ve poured multiple bowls of cereal and cups of
juice. I have snuggled on the couch, dried tears, and reffed an argument. I’ve
put a dozen eggs from the Happy Chickens Egg Farm in the cooler on
the front porch. I’ve tossed a load of towels in the laundry. I have not made
my bed. I have charged my Kindle and my cell phone. I’ve packed a collection of bags and lined them up by the door. (I
remember in my previous working life that I was up to ten bags, but the kids can
all man their own bags now, and I’m fortunately no longer in need of a breast
pump.) I’ve signed planners and permission slips and somehow remembered to
email the teacher about alternate pick-up plans for tomorrow. I’ve listened to
math facts, chicken facts, and facts about Shelly the Class Turtle. I’ve
yawned. I’ve used the bathroom five times.
And I still feel like a slacker for not getting to work
until 9.
