Watch as I play The Grown Up.
Up early to get myself ready for work. Then: wake T and start making lunch, serve breakfast, comb T’s hair, finish making lunch while T gets dressed, get dressed while T plays with the cats, check T’s purse (metrocard? guitar pick? sunglasses? play phone? real phone numbers? few dollars for lunchtime crap game … I mean, you know, just in case), pack lunch boxes, turn off lights, find the tape roller for last-minute de-furring, head out to the bus stop, thumb-wrestle my way downtown, drop T at camp, get to work.
Can I just say, this level of having it together is so not me? I can barely get myself out of the house most mornings. I never make breakfast, only rarely figure out lunch.
A friend of mine once told me having to take care of children makes you responsible. I’ve seen plenty of evidence to the contrary, but suddenly acquiring a child has magically transformed me into this very attentive, on top of things person.
Even more shocking than the morning routine, is coming home at night and fixing dinner … I mean before 10:30, mind you. And making sure T brushes her teeth. And remembering to turn on the oven light (my things-I-didn’t-think-of stand-in for a night light) before putting T to bed.
I must stress again that it is often all I can do to tend myself. How am I so instantly able to see about T, to make sure all the pieces fall into place?
Tonight I actually managed to pull off a play date in Prospect Park. A play date, people. Six kids, snacks, water features, swings and jungle gyms, no injuries, no tantrums, just fun.
Curiouser and curiouser.