The alarm goes off at 7:00AM. I am not now, nor have I ever been mistaken for an early riser. Sloane isn’t either. Her 8:00AM wake up call is proof that Jesus loves me.
I scroll The New York Times daily newsletter. I do the mini-crossword. I chew the headache medicine I keep on my bedside table. It’s bitter and disgusting, but it works faster that way. I do the Wordle.
I do not shower. I put on the navy Athleta pants and the “mallard blue” Varley quarter zip I laid out for myself the night before, grateful that it’s only 65-degrees. This is the last sub-80 weather I will see for weeks. I pull my hair into a ponytail and slip on a Chord cap in washed denim. I add earrings so I can pretend that I’m trying.
Kyle has made Sloane’s sack lunch and her breakfast. She is upset because he brushed her hair too hard. She’s been sick and is overly emotional. I calmly explain that “Daddy is still learning how to do ‘girl hair,'” and take over ponytail duties. He goes to his office; we will not see him again until he needs food or water. No mental load must be such a gift.
I try to shove a blackberry into Sloane’s mouth. She won’t touch the poffertjes she’s eaten nearly every day of her life. I’m not in the mood to fight with her about it. I drop some Life cereal onto the plate and head to the laundry room.
My mind looks like the laundry room. Piles. Just piles. To be folded. To be washed. The storage bins I haven’t had time to assemble that are supposed to corral the piles. I snatch the Rachel Antonoff snake tote that has become my favorite Mom bag from the shelf. It’s so ugly it’s cool. I shove in a blanket, pillow, and crib sheet for school. I add a stuffed dinosaur named “Sara Tops.” I flee the laundry room. I’ll get to it someday.
The lunch in the stupidly expensive bento boxes I bought last year at Costco is already in her backpack. (I will give Bentgo this, the boxes have held up through daily usage.) I add a water bottle with her name on it. An extra pair of socks. Her fancy European SPF that costs more than my outfit and her strawberry sun hat. Child is pale. The sun is our nemesis.
I apply Sloane’s sunscreen while she is distracted by the latest episode of Kim Possible. I put on her socks and shoes because we’re out of time. We’re always out of time.
The drive to school is the only part of my morning that won’t suck today as I will spend most of it explaining pragmatism in policymaking to a colleague who spends too much time on political message boards. Sloane is chipper and singing along to Veggie Tales.
She has questions about her birth, because the kids in her class are talking about origin stories for a project. How do I explain IVF to a three-year-old? How do I explain that bringing you into this world nearly killed Mommy? Literally.
I tell her a doctor took a piece of Mommy and piece of Daddy, mixed them up in a dish and made Sloane with lots of love.
“Did it hurt Daddy?”
Did what hurt Daddy, baby?
“When the doctor took a piece of him?”
No, peanut, it did not hurt Daddy at all. (Scowl.)
“Did it hurt you?”
(Did the hundreds of injections, blood tests, speculum insertions, vaginal ultrasounds, two egg retrievals, full year of bloating, complications and constant worry hurt Mommy?) Only for a little while, sweetheart.
“Then, you grew me in your belly, right there!” She points on her own belly to the spot where I tell her she grew in mine. Maybe it was all in my head, but the night of our transfer, I looked at Kyle and told him that I didn’t know if she was in there, but if she was, I imagined she was the tiny poking sensation happening in that spot.
“Did it hurt to grow me?”
(Girlfriend, it still hurts. My hips are f**ked for life.) Only for a little while, precious.
The chaos of dropoff at a preschool run by hippies is without equal. Amok is the word most often used. But my child is safe here, and what else can I ask for? Especially when one of her little friends announces to the whole room that “Sloane is here!” and every child says hello to her in a happy voice. I unpack lunch, nap stuff, say hello, say goodbye, and run for my car.
It is now 9:10AM, and I have a meeting at 10:00AM that I need to look like a person for. Sadly, the entire neighborhood is a cascading nightmare of traffic detours because the city, the county, and the state can’t coordinate construction schedules. I make it into the driveway at 9:40AM.
Now, I shower. I shower so fast that I barely wash out all of the conditioner that’s supposed to keep my hair color looking fresh. I grab the blowdryer and begin coaxing the water from my hair. Somehow I manage to get my hot rollers in place with 10-minutes to spare.
I put back on the Athleta pants, but add a chambray button down under the Varley quarter zip. It looks more professional this way. I apply foundation, contour, under-eye corrector, eyebrow pencil, blush and mascara. It’s all I have time for. I basically rip out the rollers and drop them in the sink. Two-minutes left.
Running to the dining room, I try not to trip over our 8-week old puppy, who I discover has chewed through my phone charging cord. It’s toast. I grab my laptop bag for my spare and plug in with one-minute to spare. Then, I see it.
The meeting was reschedule for 1:30PM while I was in the shower.
Fantastic.
Time for coffee.
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