It has officially been, pardon my francois, the shittiest morning of the year.

I love it when Bryan says things like, “I don’t know what you find so stressful about the mornings” and “What do you do in the mornings that is so hard?”.  Luckily, he says these things in the evening, long after GETTING READY IN THE MORNING HAS SAPPED ME OF ANY WILL TO BITCHSLAP HIM.

See, here’s the thing: I’m not a vain girl.  If you see me during the day, you could (at a single glance) discern this about me.  As long as I’m fully clothed, the rest of me can go to hell.  From shower to front door, it takes me about 45 minutes (at most) to get ready. 

Ah, but then you throw the Binja in there..

See, Binja makes his own routine before he goes to sleep.  And then he doesn’t share it with anyone.  So no matter how regularly I plan my schedule, it never EVER coincides with his.  Well, I take that back.  Occasionally, he will fool me into thinking that we’ve got a groove down.. for, like, a day.  Then the next morning.. BOOM!.. he’s up at, say, 3:30 a.m.

This was one of those mornings. 

Binja decided to stir around 5 a.m., which is half an hour before my “just in case he doesn’t wake up” alarm is set.  I went into his room, saw he was still sleepy, gave him his pacifier, and crawled into the bed in the nursery.  I figured he’d wake me up in a few minutes, ready to eat.

NOPE.  The bastard child slept until 6:30.  So when he started to wake up, I freaked out at the clock, jumped in the shower, threw my hair in a towel, and made a bottle.  Then Tony decided that he wasn’t REALLY hungry and would rather just gum the nipple.  This went on until 7:00, when I finally decided I was done.

I threw some product in my hair and ran a diffuser through it while slapping some makeup on.   Of course, all of the animals had to be fed, and OH, I should get dressed too, and after finally strapping an angry and flailing child into a carseat, we were out the door.  It was 7:30 by this point.

AND I HAD NO GAS. (Yes, this was my fault.  I know that.)

SOOOOO, we stopped in at the closest gas station, which of course is $0.40 higher than the Costco gas station I like to stop at.  But Costco isn’t open that early, and I wasn’t sure I had enough gas to get to another station, so I paid the premium rates for crap gas.

At 7:45, we’re finally on the highway, where I hit 90 and gunned it to my mother’s house.  Of course, she’s all freaking out because I’m usually there way earlier than that.  I pull up at 8:00 on the dot, which is (OF COURSE) when I’m supposed to be in a meeting.

I go to lift the car seat out of the car and OHJESUSGOD,MYBACKJUSTDIED.  I feel muscles along the left side of my body tense up in ways I didn’t even experience during childbirth, and I grit my teeth and haul the child inside. 

After ten minutes of “When did he eat last?” and “How did he sleep last night?” and “Did he get a bath?”, all of which you have to have when you drop off a child so the caretaker is fully aware of how demonic the infant will be, I limped back into my car to haul ass to work.  It’s now 8:10.

I hit 70 on one the backroads into work and SEE THE FREAKIN’ BLUE AND RED LIGHTS OF A COP.  I pull over, suddenly thankful that my tag is still two weeks not expired (note to self: GET TAGS RENEWED), and roll down my window.

“In a hurry this morning?” the cop asked as he neared the window.

“Yes.  I was speeding.  I’m sorry,” I spat out.  “But the baby was crying and then he wouldn’t eat and I had to get ready and I’m already late and.. I’m sorry, mornings are just hard.”

The cop looked at me, in all seriousness, and said, “What do you do in the mornings that’s so hard?”

(No, no ticket.  Just a warning.)