Why Are We Always Late?
10:30. We have to be there at 10:30 a.m.
Let's see, it takes half an hour to get there, five minutes to fill a tire at Quik Trip, and 10 minutes to get everyone in their carseats. That means we have to be out the door at 9:45 a.m., I think to myself, like the Little Miss Organized Planner that I am.
"Wa ha ha ha. Wa ha ha ha ha."
Where is that villainous laughter coming from?
It's the blockade of w-words standing between my family and our front door.
I inspect my purse for necessary supplies, and the questions tumble over, burying me.
Why are there 10,000 toothbrushes in my purse...but no wallet. Ah, here it is. Who spent all my money? Over to my husband's dresser. Will they accept as payment a Canadian dollar, chocolate coins, fine cigars? They will and they shall.
Now, where are my keys? Why can't we have a pager on our keys, like on the phone. Speaking of which, where is the phone? I can hear it ringing. I'm staring right at the noise, but I don't see it. Who was trying to call? Were the plans cancelled?
What are the directions? Why does Mapquest require a destination address? If I knew where I was going, I wouldn't need directions.
What's the weather? Will we need coats? Johnny, why are you wearing swimtrunks? It's the middle of winter. Richie, why don't you have pants on? No, boxers are not pants. They're underwear. What was wrong with the outfits I picked out for you? Too scratchy? Well, I'll try not to lay out hairshirts next time. Socks. You guys need socks. Why, in a pile that scrapes the ceiling, are there no matching socks? And why do my children care if their socks match? One is now wearing an orange T-shirt and red slacks and the other, cowboy boots and sweatpants.
Now for J.J., our large infant son. Good, Lord, when did Baby Gargantuan's feet grow to men's size 13? Well, these wing tips ought to look fine with his powder blue bunting.
Okay, regardless of our appearance, we must bust through this blockade and out the door. Heave. Ho. Heave. Ho.
We're outside. Ladies and gentleman. We are out the door.
Wa ha ha. Wa ha ha.
Well, look who's here. The w's have followed us out to the car.
Why. Are. These. Car. Seats. So. Hard. To. Fasten? There. Oh no. Why won't the engine turn over? Who left the lights on over night? Where are our jumper cables? Why did I daydream every time Justin taught me to jumpstart a car? Why? Why? Why?
Ch, ch, ch, ch. mmmm. Yes. We are in business. I breathe in. I acknowledge that the answer to every who question was me. Smiling at the children, I say chirpily, "Off we go." I haughtily ignore that smart aleck clock, which claims it is 10:30 a.m. already. Turning on the radio, I ease my foot off the break.
Now, where were we going?
Let's see, it takes half an hour to get there, five minutes to fill a tire at Quik Trip, and 10 minutes to get everyone in their carseats. That means we have to be out the door at 9:45 a.m., I think to myself, like the Little Miss Organized Planner that I am.
"Wa ha ha ha. Wa ha ha ha ha."
Where is that villainous laughter coming from?
It's the blockade of w-words standing between my family and our front door.
I inspect my purse for necessary supplies, and the questions tumble over, burying me.
Why are there 10,000 toothbrushes in my purse...but no wallet. Ah, here it is. Who spent all my money? Over to my husband's dresser. Will they accept as payment a Canadian dollar, chocolate coins, fine cigars? They will and they shall.
Now, where are my keys? Why can't we have a pager on our keys, like on the phone. Speaking of which, where is the phone? I can hear it ringing. I'm staring right at the noise, but I don't see it. Who was trying to call? Were the plans cancelled?
What are the directions? Why does Mapquest require a destination address? If I knew where I was going, I wouldn't need directions.
What's the weather? Will we need coats? Johnny, why are you wearing swimtrunks? It's the middle of winter. Richie, why don't you have pants on? No, boxers are not pants. They're underwear. What was wrong with the outfits I picked out for you? Too scratchy? Well, I'll try not to lay out hairshirts next time. Socks. You guys need socks. Why, in a pile that scrapes the ceiling, are there no matching socks? And why do my children care if their socks match? One is now wearing an orange T-shirt and red slacks and the other, cowboy boots and sweatpants.
Now for J.J., our large infant son. Good, Lord, when did Baby Gargantuan's feet grow to men's size 13? Well, these wing tips ought to look fine with his powder blue bunting.
Okay, regardless of our appearance, we must bust through this blockade and out the door. Heave. Ho. Heave. Ho.
We're outside. Ladies and gentleman. We are out the door.
Wa ha ha. Wa ha ha.
Well, look who's here. The w's have followed us out to the car.
Why. Are. These. Car. Seats. So. Hard. To. Fasten? There. Oh no. Why won't the engine turn over? Who left the lights on over night? Where are our jumper cables? Why did I daydream every time Justin taught me to jumpstart a car? Why? Why? Why?
Ch, ch, ch, ch. mmmm. Yes. We are in business. I breathe in. I acknowledge that the answer to every who question was me. Smiling at the children, I say chirpily, "Off we go." I haughtily ignore that smart aleck clock, which claims it is 10:30 a.m. already. Turning on the radio, I ease my foot off the break.
Now, where were we going?
posted by Midwest Mama at 4:06 AM
2 Comments:
Absoultely hilarious!! Your stories are anxiuosly read everyday by all your family and friends in Phoenix...keep up the great writing. I'm thinking screen play or t.v. series...you rock, Bridge!!
Devida
I'm cracking up again!!!! That was a great one!!! Every morning, I get up, go in the bathroom and then straight to the computer! Yes, I did sleep in today!!! Love you, Mom
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