Treadmill

Up at 5:45. I could hardly open my eyes so i pried them open with my thumb and index finger and proceeded to grope around for my morning caffeine fix. Normally I'm awake in 5 minutes and raring to go. Today 30 minutes tick by and I'm still dropping things, staggering around like a drunken sailor and bumping into the kitchen cabinets.

I am very tired this week.

I shower, get dressed, set my hair, put on makeup, start a load of laundry, pack lunches and lay out The Boy's school uniform.

When he wakes up he informs me he wants to dress up today for Wednesday's school church service. Last week he didn't want to dress up for Wednesday's school church service.

I hang up The Boy's uniform and I lay out his church clothes deliberately choosing the peach dress shirt because it's the only dress shirt that isn't as wrinkled as Moses' mother-in-law. I lay out the matching tie.

10 minutes later he emerges in a white dress shirt that looks like it has been retrieved from an elephant stampede. He has changed ties. The peach dress shirt and matching tie are on the floor of his closet.

The Baby is in a rip snortin' mood this morning. I get her dressed in her tiny little uniform.

Would you like a drink, baby?
"NO!"
Would you like some breakfast, baby?
"NO!"
Take take your medicine, baby.
"NO!"

She takes her right shoe off and throws it to the left. She takes her sock off and throws it to the right. After the 3rd time The Boy suggests that the teeny-weeny string on her sock may be bothering her. I can hardly see the blasted string but grab the scissors anyway and very dramatically snip it off. The Boy is, after all, the sensory integration issue expert in our family.

The Baby is now very pleased with her right sock. The shoe, however, goes sailing down the hallway. Again.

By now The Boy is standing on top of the white coffee table it took me weeks to sand, prime, and paint announcing that the cat peed behind the sofa while grinding the heels of his church shoes into the surface. This illustrates perfectly why the decor in my home has gone from shabby chic to shabby sh*t.

After a maniacal mom meltdown I drop The Boy off at school...late...and head to work. Yes, all this and work too.

I'm a block away from my first client on the other side of yahooty-ville when they call to cancel. This is after we agreed last week that i would arrive 30 minutes earlier because it would be easier for them. They cancel because the baby is still sleeping. No pay. No gas reimbursement. Arghhh.

The day drones on painfully. I finish work and gather the kids from school and race home just in time for The Baby's therapy.

The therapist doesn't show up. Groan.

There's a timid knock on my front door. A painfully thin elderly lady with bad teeth is standing on my porch with a paper in her hand that she keeps referring to. She is mumbling but I finally make out the words, "You have a drink you're giving away?" She is referring to the supplement I advertised on Freecycle but I am puzzled because I left it on the front porch this morning and it is already gone. It becomes quickly apparent I won't get much information from this lady. She seems confused. I ask her if she is the lady who e-mailed me who's husband needed the supplement to gain weight. "No," she replies, "It's for her not me." I look around. As far as I can see there is no "her" present. I have to confess that I am very tired and I don't care who "her" is.

I have extra supplement left and tell "Sally" I will carry a case to her car as it is too heavy to lift. She informs me she has taken a bus to my home and walked almost a mile from the bus stop. She asks to use my phone but then can't remember the number. When she turned to the side I noticed the clumps of matted hair dingle-dangling from the back of her head. No, they weren't dreads.

Can this day get ANY weirder?

Photo from Google Images

I can't let this lady walk to the bus stop but do I really want her matted little head in my car? Is she dangerous? But more importantly do I really want to drag the wheelchairs out of the back of the van to put the back seat up? Groan. Not to mention having to drag three tired kids along? Groan again. And again. And does she actually know where she lives?

By now "Sally" is mumbling in my living room. I do a quick visual assessment. Yes, even if she suddenly displayed the crazed strength of a psychotic serial killer she would be no threat whatsoever.

In my current state of mind I could snap her in two with one hand tied behind my back.

I pile the kids, the supplements and "Sally" into the van and start driving. Thankfully, she does know where she lives.

After we drop Sally off to a chorus of "God Bless You's" The Boy ponders the event out loud.

"She was really crazy wasn't she mommy?"
Yes honey, she was.
"I think she said the "B' word."
You mean bitch?
"Yes."
No, I don't think she said the "B" word.
"Well, she was moving her mouth like she was saying it."
She was moving her mouth because she didn't have control over her movements. It's called tardive dyskinesia. Generally a result of long term psychotropic usage.

The Teenager had a different perspective.

"Poor Sally! she walked to our house!"
Yes, she did.
" She was so pretty in her flowered skirt and blue blouse."
I agree. She was dressed very nicely.
"And she had shoes on!"
Yes, she did. Imagine that!

Apparently, The Teenager missed the teeth , hair mats and tardive dyskinesia.

Today was a bizarre ride on a tedious, fatiguing treadmill. Ironically, The Artist sent me this treadmill video. I'm thinking there has got to be a way to make life's tedious treadmill days as much fun as the guys did in the video.

Photo from Google Images

On second thought, maybe I'll work on that thought tomorrow.