Yeah, I’m not that enthralled either.
1. Alarm goes off. I think about how much I hate mornings. Already everything that needs to be done is crowding my head. I think about finding a nice cave to live in where I don’t have to function in the real world. But I hate the outdoors. (See my blog on camping.) Get out of bed.
2. Schlep to the bathroom. Doesn’t matter that I got up three times last night to pee. I have to go again. Sit and ruminate on how much I hate mornings. Finish, comb hair that looks like it went through a blender all night long.
Same stylist Rolling Stone Keith Richards goes to
3. Pull on sweats. The thought of eventual exercise makes me hate mornings all the more. Leave room.
4. Nine times out of ten, Kiddo is already up, huddled in a miserable ball on the couch. He’s not huddled because he hates mornings as I do. Nope, this kid snaps awake like a cannon went off in his ear. The one morning person in our household. He’s huddled because he hates school. I have the urge to huddle with him, like terrified people hoping to escape the notice of a zombie horde. Instead, I fetch his vitamin and make the day’s first cup of coffee.
5. Kiddo eats breakfast at school, so all that’s really left to do is for him to put on the clothes we wisely laid out the night before and wait for the bus. Unlike me, he does not wake up ravenous. I begin shoveling breakfast in my mouth, chased by wonderful, life-giving coffee.
6. Bus arrives. I walk the sad child to it. He boards, I wave goodbye, he stares at me as if I have just sent him off to a Siberian gulag. The pang of guilt recedes as I return to my house and the coffee pot.
7. Waste ridiculous amounts of time on the Internet while drinking coffee. Hubs gets up. He drinks coffee too. We are miserable with morning, but in sync.
8. Notice the clock. Curse. Hate mornings.
9. Exercise. Look forward to being done...and drinking coffee.
10. Shower. This lasts a long, long time because it’s warm and quiet and I don’t want to go back out there where life and people are.
11. Put clothes on because there are Jehovah’s Witnesses out there and they always end up at my door.
12. Sit down. Face computer. Think about the writing I need to get done today. Stomach turns to lead and panic attack sets in. Grab coffee.
13. Sit back down and face computer again. Open the file I’m working on. Type. Type. Forget everything else and type.
14. Hubs says lunch is ready. Scream in terror because I am surprised out of my writing world where Plucky Heroine is in dire straits and Dashing Manly Hero is racing against time to save her only to be confronted by the Twisted Unstoppable Villain. Give Hubs the glare.
“Wendy, let me explain something to you.”
15. Stomach growls. Glare turns to gratitude. Food!
16. Eat. Drink coffee because ... well, coffee. Go back to writing.
17. Kiddo arrives home. Stare at him in surprise. Is it that time already? Almost give him the glare but remember my priority is to be his mother and not traumatize him. Give him a hug and a kiss while thinking about how little work I’ve gotten done.
“You know I love you, right?” while looking insane.
18. I ask him how his day was. He dutifully replies it was okay and begins edging away. To our mutual gratitude, I send him off to melt his brain with the Xbox and go back to writing.
19. Realize I will not complete half of what I’d hoped to. Sigh and go make dinner.
20. Dinner, serenaded by whatever gross noises my child thinks are hilarious that day.
21. Kiddo’s homework. Pouting, bargaining, and threats to throw out the Xbox ensue. Homework finally gets done.
22. Waste time on Internet. Realize how late it's getting and run around to get stuff done. Realize the house looks like an episode from ‘Hoarders’, just as it has for the last couple of weeks. Laugh at the idea of housework and pray no one ever comes to visit me.
23. Send the child to bed. As it is too late for coffee, I open a bottle of wine.
24. Brain has shut down. Fall into chair next to Hubs to watch television and grunt incomprehensibly at all comments he makes. Look at the clock and wish it was time to go to bed.
25. Fall into bed. Get back up to make sure door is locked. Get back into bed. Hot flash. Go to adjust thermostat. Get back into bed. Random but compelling thoughts decide now is a good time to crowd into my brain. Lay awake thinking about why slow-moving zombies keep catching humans who can run on ‘The Walking Dead’, the lingering impacts of the War of 1812, or the gross national product of Germany.
26. At long last, sleep.
So there you have it. The glamorous life of a writer. Try to keep the envy at bay.