The morning rush

If you've been my friend for any length of time, you've probably been late to meet me at some point and felt some level of my wrath. I am on time. It's in my blood. I was raised to believe that being late was, quite simply, unacceptable. If I were to add up the hours upon hours I've sat in a restaurant or bar or coffee shop waiting for a friend...if I linger on that thought long enough, my head will explode. So, yeah, I'm a little Type A in that area.

Even with unexpected rush hour traffic I was never late for anything. In fact, even on days when I was so stressed, driving, swearing, flipping the bird at each vehicle I angrily passed, certain I'd be embarrasingly late, I usually walked in to an empty room only to sit and wait for others to arrive.

I fondly recall what it used to be like, to get out the door in the morning. The only question was if I had enough time to actually wash and dry my hair. I'd floss, exfoliate, spend 15 minutes deciding what to wear, dress and then change twice. I'd make an egg white sandwich for breakfast and maybe stop at the post office on the way. Then I become a parent.

I now wake up a full hour earlier than I used to. Half the time I have spent my "sleeping" hours in a semi-reclined, recliner with a wiggly 7 month old in my arms. We get up, I hand her off to her father while I make coffee and grab a South Beach bar. I drink coffee and gnaw on my surprisingly yummy granola bar and while I get ready now, instead of while browsing Facebook, CNN and Babycenter. He hands her back to me. She goes in her co-sleeper thing that has mostly functioned as my clothing rack ever since she decided at about 1 month old that she was so done with sleeping anywhere besides within mine or her daddy's exhausted embrace. She sits in the co-sleeper and might watch me get ready for a few minutes, but mostly she will scream if I am not looking directly at her. I trade off my morning tasks with paying attention to her. Brush teeth, hand her a toy, rinse under shower for 7 seconds, sing her a song, attempt to button skirt that used to fit, swear, throw skirt across room, tickle her belly. She multi-tasks by shaking her plastic key ring, screaming and spitting up on the sweater I was going to wear.

We get her dressed. This takes much longer than it ever should because just when I was making good time, I realize that she is now 7 months and no longer fits in most of the 3-6 month clothing which were sparse anyway becuase we haven't done laundry in 2 weeks. Awesome. Where the hell did we put the 6-9 month stuff? She usually ends up in something a little too big, a little too small, slightly mis-matched or not quite right for the weather. I hate winter. I also hate baby socks. She has never kept two on for more than 3 minutes. I have occasionally pondered just how bad super glue would be for a baby's skin.

On days her daddy is around to help we do better than if he isn't, because if he has to leave early, we somehow have to get her/her carrier, my work bag/laptop, purse, coffee and anything else we need out the door. Yes, I have spilled coffee on her - but don't worry, I haven't actually had hot coffee in months.

If we get to the babysitter at the time we said we'd be there it's a miracle. This babysitter is nice. The last one seemed kind of put out no matter what time I got there which was offputting and unsettling (which is why we have a new babysitter.) But this one is chatty. It doesn't matter how late you are - never be even the teensiest bit rude to the babysitter, at least not when you are leaving the baby in her care. Even the nicest person doesn't go the extra mile for your kid when you are acting like a bitch to them.

By the time I have explained her latest bowel movement and more recent feeding and get back in to my car, I have 2 voicemails and 27 emails. I have resolved to not risk leaving my child motherless by texting and or checking email while driving, so it eats at me the entire drive there as I consider if public transportation would ever work into this crazy schedule so I could at least get some work done during transit. I decide it won't, so I turn up the radio and rock out to a little (enter cool band you've never heard of...actually I listen to NPR and probably will forever unless Jon Steward gets a Serius/XM channel all his own.)

I walk into work - my "new" job that I started shortly after having the babe. You know, the job where they think of me as a chronically slightly late person. My only solace is that my husband has always been a ridiculously late person...and he's good enough at his work that no one has ever fired him or done more than just rolled their eyes. That's the key - you have to be good enough that it doesn't matter. And though mommyhood is to blame for my lateness, it has sharpened just about every skill I have and heightened every sense and further galvanized my already stellar intuition. Basically, I rock and you can wait five minutes for me - I'm worth it.