Is That Really You In There?

It's been a week already. A week since what? I couldn't tell you-- but it's been a week and it was one of those weeks. There was just too much to do for there to be any semblance of organization. The days are all squooshed together into one big glop of time that was punctuated by brief smatterings of Happy Nappys and longer periods of sleeping time that happened at night but personally, very little of the sleeping was getting done by yours truly until last night.

Last night, although I briefly woke to sounds of traps snapping in the bathrooms (our elusive euphemism who lives in the walls between the bathrooms is proving very wily indeed), Katie slamming into the closet door, Beans stirring a couple of times, and the garbage truck, for the most part I slept like a rock. In life BT (before twins) this would NEVER have counted as a good night's sleep but now I take what I can get with blithering gratitude that I'll make it through today with fewer than five caffeinated beverages. See? Still not making a lot of sense-- but, moving on...

I totally overslept this morning. The garbage truck usually comes around five AM. I heard that, and then the next thing I heard was Hubby say, "Oh, Pie, it's 7:21".

That was bad.

Biscuit and I are supposed to leave the house by 7:22 to get him to school on time. Usually we're a couple of minutes behind (and by "we" I mean the Biscuit), but as long as we're pulling out of the driveway by 7:26, Biscuit makes it on time if he scoots along. I got that miserable feeling in the pit of my stomach that he was going to be late and it was all my sleepy-headed fault.

I jumped out of bed, threw on my robe and jetted over to the door. I opened it, expecting to see Biscuit's closed door standing blankly, defiantly, before me, a non-reactive hurdle to barrel through in my groggy state, a barrier between me and the comatose body of my son who needed rousing, breakfast, dressing, teeth-brushing and everything else to prepare him for the rigors of an eighth-grade Friday. All this raced through my head in the milliseconds it took to open the door and glance across the hall and I resigned myself to the fact that getting this day off to the best possible start was going to be a tough task and that I was a terrible mother who didn't deserve the three fantastic kids, devoted dog and non-schlubby Hubby I had.

But the sight greeting my bleary eyes was not Biscuit's door. His door was open, his bed was empty (not made, but hey, I'd take whatever I could get this morning) and his backpack and sax were gone. I stumbled down the hall on the verge of shock and into the kitchen, where Biscuit was just entering from the family room dressed, accessorized and ready to go.

"I love those Pop-Tarts. They're the best thing I've ever had for breakfast. Thank you for getting them. "

"I'm still dreaming," I thought. "You already ate? You're ready to go?" I stood before my son in disbelief, goosebumps raising all over my lower legs-- and not just because I was wearing a short robe.

"Yeah," the Biscuit responded nonchalantly, as though this occurrence was the most normal thing that had ever happened in all his life.

I took my cue from him and decided not to react like I wanted, jumping up and down in joy and singing a Hallelujah chorus because yes, he should be able to do this every morning, and no, nobody wants to hear me sing, especially not first thing in the morning.

We boarded the Starship Margaret and trekked across the municipal universe to school and I told Biscuit along the way that he really is the awesomest kid on the planet.

"I know," the Biscuit replied.

There are days I wish I were more of a morning person. Today, I was more of a morning person due in large part to my son's awesome behavior, which shows that maybe, just maybe, one time he listened to me and remembered something I said so maybe there's hope for the world after all. But at least for today I'm still going to be on the lookout for flying pigs, watching the news for notice that Hell has frozen over, or for an alien crawling out of my son's inanimate body-- a polite, punctual alien.