Word on the street is you guys all wanted to know what I was doing yesterday morning. Don't look at me, that's just what the street said. I can't blame you though. Complete strangers often stop me and demand I rate my mornings on a scale of awesome to bunions. I'll let you decide...
7 am: The first attack comes by light of dawn. Busy making breakfast, I don't hear the creak of the highchairs as they slide into the kitchen. It isn't until I hear small feet running across the counter tops that I turn.
"What are you doing?"
Butch turns. "Ma? Hewwo." *makes motion as if answering cell phone*
"I know for a fact you don't have a cell phone. You have no money....or a signature. So it wouldn't be anywhere near the mixer. Off the counter." Dejected faces stared back as I slid the highchairs back into the dining room.
8 am: As I'm having my morning chat with Mr. Coffee, I turn just in time to see two fat babies scurrying up the highchairs and back onto the counter.
Sundance protests. "Ma ma spoon."
"No spoon. Get down." Both highchairs are dragged upstairs.
8:30 am: A rousing game of "Who can remove the electrical outlet covers first and eat them?".
9 am: I hear the Xbox screaming as it's turned on and off and on and off and on and off. "What are you doing?"
Both babies have stacked the couch cushions against the TV console.
"Bu bu gup gup."
"Yep, that's the sound it'll make when it explodes. Get down.
10 am: "Ahh ma ma!"
I run, which is awkward because I've never figured out how to keep my arms at my sides.
"What the -." Butch has crawled into the Lazy Susan and is stuck in the revolving door.
"If I wanted you in the spice rack, I would've named you Sage McPeppercorn. Get out of there."
10:30 am: I find out the manuscript I've been reformatting all morning was fine the way it was.
10:45 am: The coat closet has been breached. I see a small, indistinguishable shape run by in my polar vest.
11 am: I kneel and stretch my hands to the sky. "Oh Lord, would that you let me keep my sanity until lunch? If you say yes, I shall make you a chicken salad sandwich, free of charge."
11:30: The house is too quiet. I look around the corner and witness Flea being ridden like a small race horse. This is the dog's fault, as he allows this to happen.
I smack the spatula against the bread, effectively killing said loaf of bread. "Hey, Sea Biscuit, get it together. The second in command doesn't fall apart if the Captain's away."
Both babies slap the dog in the jowls and run away covered in black hair, which is good because I just swept.
12 pm: Sweet lunch time. After dragging the highchairs back downstairs, I serve the chicken salad and put one aside for Jesus because the house hasn't burned down.
How do your mornings usually go? And where's my polar vest?
Until Next Time, Readers!