Probably the worst part, as a human being, is saying "good job, buddy" to Oscar while I pick up his pungent poop as he kicks dirt in my face. There are other bad parts, of course, but that's probably the bottom.
How's your weekday morning routine? Stressful? Funny? Chaotic? I'm betting, like us, maybe a little of all three.
Ours typically gets going, for everyone, around 6:30, so that's where I'll start. I figure sharing this average Tuesday morning might help you, a reader, generate some improvement ideas for your routines. Far more likely, you'll compare yourself and feel much better about the way you do things.
6:30: With my eight-minute shower behind me, I'm dressed and ready for work. I'll get there 150 minutes from now. I pick Aurora out of her bed, snuggle her (the calmest moment of the next 88 minutes), and bring her to our bed so Bridget can feed her.
6:33: A light goes on across the hall. Annabelle is awake. Someday, she will hop out of bed and efficiently get herself downstairs. Now, mostly, as depicted in the photo above, she puts stuffed polar bears on her head and smiles.
6:37: Annabelle refuses to wear the outfit we chose together last night. "Okay then, this one or this one?," I ask, using the "choice" technique that has served us well as parents. "Neither." She smiles, realizing how smart she is. Then she cries because she only wants to wear tights, not pants. The only clean pair is too small, so we squeeze her into those. My blood pressure starts rising, but, thankfully she dresses pretty quickly.
6:47: Annabelle and I finally finish her trio of morning bathroom duties -- peeing, washing her hands, and brushing her teeth. (Did I skip something? No. I did not. This, for some ungodly reason, takes like 10 damn minutes. "Annabelle! Just use the hand towel right here!" Annabelle: "But my hands are really wet. I need the big towel over there." Adorable. Infuriating.)
6:48: Annabelle and I walk downstairs to get her breakfast. The conversation is the same every day: "Daniel Tiger or Doc McStuffins?" "Waffles or pancakes?" Two minutes later, she's eating a waffle and watching Daniel Tiger. Some days, she gets a full episode, about 25 minutes. Other days, if we're really behind, she gets a half episode. Choosing the episode takes a minute or two, which we don't have.
6:50: I sprint up the stairs to take over for Bridget, who is changing Aurora. This is challenging because Aurora won't stay still. Bridget hops in the shower, while I put Aurora in something that matches only if you squint really hard. Whatever.
6:53: I bring Aurora downstairs and plop her in her highchair to play with some toys. Some days, I sprinkle Cheerios in front of her. Other days, I forget. "Annabelle, eat your waffles, hun."
6:55: I start emptying the dishwasher. "Annabelle! Please eat your waffles!"
6:59: Eyeing the clock, I see we have 21 minutes until we have to leave. Leaving around 7:20 gets us to daycare on time, allows me to catch my train to work, and makes traffic somewhat bearable for Bridget. I sprint (never just run or jog) downstairs to get a couple frozen milks for Aurora's lunch and start defrosting them.
7:01: "Annabelle!! Waffles!! Crackers and sun butter for lunch?" She nods, never looking away from her show. (Yes, we'd prefer she read in the morning. Yes, we'd prefer she not stare at TV. But we also live in the real world, so take your judging eyes elsewhere.)
7:10: After making lunches and getting bottles together, I enjoy the aforementioned Oscar experience. I ask Annabelle to watch her sister while Dad runs outside for a couple minutes. Not sure if this is legal.
7:15: Annabelle's episode ends. "Okay, please turn it off, Annabelle. Please put on your coat and shoes." (I'll say this at least six more times until she actually does it.) Together, Bridget and I gather the lunches, ignored babies, and our own bags. We glance at the whiteboard in the kitchen that we may or may not have updated the night before. We have everything.
7:17: Annabelle still hasn't put on her coat. I race back into the kitchen to get water for Oscar and lock the trash so he won't get into it and eat garbage all day. I pat him on the head and tell him we'll "be right back."
7:20: With bags dangling from every available appendage, we limp-sprint out the door. Because it's winter in New England, we see there is ice on the cars. Crap, I think. I'm going to miss my train.
7:24: We all leave the house (Bridget goes left and I go right) and I cross my frozen fingers that people let me into the line of traffic and we hit all the green lights.
7:33: Annabelle, Aurora, and I arrive at daycare. I drop off Annabelle (a quick hug and a kiss because, mercifully, she's good at drop offs now) and run across the center to drop off Aurora. I take my shoes off because it's a no-shoe zone. I plop Aurora on the floor or hand her to a smiling teacher, remind them that she needs X or Y, and kiss her on the head.
7:43: I check-in the girls on the computer system at daycare and sprint to my car. "Siri, call my wife!"
7:55: After chatting with Bridget about the morning, the issue du jour, the traffic, and how we can try to get out of the house earlier tomorrow (spoiler alert: we won't), I park at the train station and sprint, for the fifth time this morning, to the waiting train.
7:58: I grab a seat, look at the ceiling, and
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