Stagger out of bed when the alarm goes off and jump in the shower. Grab comfortable clothes for a morning of teaching preschool (but not too comfortable, because you need to be professional at the office later), while listening to the kids getting ready for school. They're already fighting, but at least they're old enough to get ready on their own now, which means you actually have time to blow-dry your hair. Or at least you thought you did. Finish with the dryer, look at the clock and think, "Holy crap, is that the time?" Run downstairs and holler that it's time to go to the bus. Pick up everything Child #1 left behind on his way to the van, promising to come back and make a second trip for Child #2 who is protesting that he can't leave because he hasn't fed the cats. Drop off Child #1 at bus, go back home. Pack up all your own stuff, back to the van, drop off Child #2 at school. Stop at gas station, since fuel light has been on since you started the van the first time. Drive to work.
Arrive at work 10 minutes late. Attempt to do an hour's worth of room set-up and materials prep in 30 minutes. Spend the next three hours helping with potty accidents, setting out and cleaning up art supplies, and dodging plastic fruit projectiles from boys "playing golf" with the wooden spoons from the play kitchen. Do an insane amount of ballet dancing, using homemade streamers, which fortunately 4-year-olds aren't tall enough to smack you in the face with more than a few times. A little Schubert takes the edge off.
See everyone off with moms and dads, wash the snack dishes. (Yes, the teachers have to wash the dishes. Teachers have to do everything.) Leave the rest of the cleanup undone so you can get away a little early, as you are scheduled to lead a meeting and are supposed to bring lunch for everyone. Precariously balance to-go orders for four people out to the van, put key in ignition, look at dashboard clock and think, "Holy crap, is that the time?"
Arrive at your meeting 10 minutes late. Get through all the housekeeping items, then discover logistical problem with facilities plan for upcoming event. Spend 30 minutes longer than planned on ironing it out. Go back to office and open up laptop for the first time today. Attempt to reply to an hour's worth of email in 30 minutes. Leave the rest unread so you can pick up Child #1 at the bus stop. Drive home. A little Metallica takes the edge off.
Arrive at school bus stop 10 minutes late. Pick up Child #1 and go home. Give food, water, and lavish praise to cats, who have charmingly left a dead vole on the front porch to show you how much they love you. Empty dishwasher, load dishwasher, wash dishes. Check homework. Renew library books you forgot to stop and return. (When would you have done that?) Pay bills. Engage in prolonged negotiation with Child #1 over what he and his imaginary friend Larry can have for snack. Drink some more of the Dr. Pepper you got yourself at lunch, even though you shouldn't have drunk any of it in the first place. Wonder how much water you've consumed today (not enough). Pause for a moment of regret that you didn't tell them to leave the mayo off your sandwich. Drink more Dr. Pepper anyway. Drive to Post Office and pick up mail; drive to school to pick up Child #2 from track practice; try unsuccessfully to read most of the mail while you wait for him to come out. Return home to discover bills you forgot to take to the Post Office and mail. Decide against making anything for dinner, and in favor of eating whatever leftovers can be found in the refrigerator. Unwisely check work email again and answer a couple. Leave the rest of the housework undone so you can get ready for the event you're attending with your husband tonight.
Make heroic effort to don "shapewear" necessary with dress your husband helped you pick out. Pray to God that if you succeed in getting it on, you don't immediately pass out from lack of oxygen. Cross over from mild regret to cursing yourself for the earlier Dr. Pepper/mayo incident. Finally manage to get dressed and meet your nephew--tonight's babysitter--at the door, only slightly out of breath from the effort. Excuse yourself and return to the bathroom to do your hair. Speculate whether makeup will cover chigger bites on your knee incurred at last week's track meet, and decide to try it. (It won't.)
Leave for the event 10 minutes late, admonishing Child #2 to do his homework as you walk out the door. Drive to meet your husband, and realize about halfway there that you forgot to get yourself any dinner out of the refrigerator. Spend the next couple of hours looking at artwork, listening to music, and bumping elbows with eleventy gazillion people, approximately half of whom you are actually introduced to. Clap enthusiastically when your husband receives an award. While he gets his picture taken, enjoy 5 minutes alone at a table with a tiny, tiny plate of cheese, crackers, and fruit. Afterward, walk out to the parking lot with friends and realize you can't remember where you parked. Your friends help you by asking, "Does your van have a lot of bird poop on it?" and then directing you to the place they saw it when they drove in.
Leave the event 10 minutes after you already planned to be home. Drive home in absolute, blissful silence. Load up your nephew--along with your kids, since Hubby is still off at the thingy and there's no one else home--and drive him home, where your niece's enthusiastic greeting ("YOU got a HAIRCUT! AND you have on a PRETTY DRESS! And a pretty JACKET! And pretty BOOTS!") almost makes you decide the shapewear was worth it. Drive back home and send your kids to bed, over the angry protests of Child #2, who just now remembered that he forgot to do his homework. Put a load of track clothes in the washer. Put on pajamas, allowing your body to resume its real shape. Fuzzy socks take the edge off.
Check personal email and decide there are too many to read or answer. Make yourself a plate of leftovers and eat them in eight minutes while watching Phineas and Ferb. Wish you had some more Dr. Pepper; drink some water instead. Pack suitcase for work trip tomorrow. Move clean laundry to dryer. Create elaborate document to get husband through the 24 hours you'll be on work trip, containing instructions such as, "Friday, 3:30--Pick kids up from school." Open work email and attempt to finish at least an hour's worth of work in 30 minutes. Spend an hour on it instead. Look up at the clock and think, "Holy crap, is that the time?" Go take track clothes out of dryer and get yourself a piece of cheesecake out of the fridge, even though it's 11:54 pm. Eat it while watching 30 Rock.
Shut everything down and head upstairs. Stop in each kid's room and sit on the side of the bed, looking at them sleeping. Notice how big they are; think about how fast time flies by. Breathe in a moment of overwhelming gratitude for the amazing blessing of these kids, this day, ballet dancing with preschoolers, Metallica, friends, Dr. Pepper. Collapse into bed and remember again how much you love this bed. Sleep. (Until it's time to wake up and repeat.)
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