I had an appointment at 9:00 a.m. this morning.
Yeah, ha, ha, ha. WHAT was I thinking?
Anyway, we were out of bad and in high gear by 7:00. I got dressed-- then remembered I had to appear in public before my toilet scrubbing regimen this morning, so I had to change out of the holey old jean skirt into a more suitable skirt. By the time we had breakfast taken care of it was 7:45. At least we only spilled milk once this morning!
Then it was time to get dressed. Elliott decided to dress himself, which meant some tactful negotiations to make sure he didn't look like he... had dressed himself! Then the same process with Rilla-- maybe I should take the handles off her bureau so we don't start every dressing session with her already firmly clutching a wildly mismatched collection of clothes. Cheyenne tried to put on a play dress that was way too little, but she was easily persuaded into a more appropriate outfit. By this point, we decided to just change Lincoln's diaper and leave him in his jammies.
Okay, three heads of hair to deal with. Thankfully, not TOO many tangles this morning, but braiding still takes a bit of time.
Then, Mr. Grin-All-Around-the-Room-at-My-Siblings-Instead-of-Drinking morphed into I-Will-Die-of-Starvation-if-You-Even-Think-of-Cutting-Short-This-Nursing-Session. Ooookay. We still have fifteen minutes to make it to the appointment, which is about a ten minute drive. We'll assume the diaper bag is loaded with all the essentials.
WHY is my phone beeping "Low Battery" when I plugged it in last night? Must examine the cord-- at a later date.
Oh, right, I have to have paperwork for this appointment. Now where did that go...?
Finally, Lincoln is in the car, I'm running around to buckle in Rilla... and the fumes hit me. "Marilla, do you need your diaper changed?" Back into the locked house, running with the getting-heavier-all-the-time toddler up two flights of stairs. Record changing time, but then we need to scrub our hands.
Whew! Back to the car! Amazingly, Elliott has buckled himself in this time. Only have to deal with Rilla. Which is easier said than done, considering she is carrying two baby dolls, a bag of pretzels, and two Bible bags, all of which she clutched firmly through the diaper change. (Thank goodness Cheyenne didn't notice the theft of her Bible bag and raise a ruckus.) Put the van in reverse, hoping I don't hear a clunk from an abandoned bike or scooter. Notice that the gas gauge is hopping all over the place-- our van's cute little way of telling us it is REALLY low on gas and the gauge will be on strike until we've filled the tank again. Debate with myself whether I would rather be yet later to the appointment, or sitting beside the road with four bored children-- IF my cell phone has enough juice to call AAA while we wait. Reluctantly conclude that I have to stop for gas.
I'm all set, though-- credit card in my hand as I pull into the pump, slam it into park, turn off the key and hop out. Several swipes later (made with exaggerated patience and care), realize that I have my old, expired credit card. Dump my diaper bag out looking for my credit card. Can't find it. Reach for my emergency credit card while adding "tear the trash cans apart, call all the grocery stores, call the credit card company to report a lost card" to my gargantuan to-do list. Finally get five gallons of gas in the van.
No one slow on the road, thank goodness, so I keep it at 64 instead of my usual 62. Get to the place, and start unbuckling kids. Tell Rilla to PLEASE hurry as she attempts to pull her arms out of the car seat while still clutching ALL her stuff. Grab Lincoln, stuff important things back in the diaper bag (oh, yeah! the paperwork!), allay Elliott's fears that I am going to leave him stranded in the parking lot, grab Rilla's hand, and start walking in. We all have our babies-- Mommy, Cheyenne, Elliott and Marilla. In fact, Cheyenne has two dolls. Plus an apple, a bag of pretzels, and some essential books. Elliott has contained himself to one doll.
Pull the door open (watch your fingers!), and walk in the room at 9:08.
The receptionist looks at the out-of-breath mother, smiles, and never says a word about being late.
I did make the follow-up appointment for 9:30 a.m., though.