The Bag

So this morning everything seemed to be going well. I woke up (always a good thing as I am really not what you would call a "morning person"). I stumbled bleary-eyed into the kitchen and made coffee (this is an important step- coffee has actually been used to lure me out of bed in the morning). I made the oldest Monkey his lunch for school and finished getting him ready to go. I sent him off to the bus stop with actual minutes to spare this morning (a rare feat). It is warm outside so I stood on the step and watched him at the bus stop for a minute (in secret, as this is an activity I have been banned from doing by the fiercely independent seven-year-old). Suddenly, I heard cries of "MOM!" and saw his little mohawked head bobbing towards me as he ran frantically in the direction of home. "MY BAG!!!" he was yelling.

Crap. In his class each child gets to be a Teaching Assistant for a day and help the teacher with everything- passing out papers and writing things on the board and making the math problem of the day....everything. Part of this is to bring something from home in a special TA bag to share with the class. In other words, this is a Big Deal. And he had forgotten the bag in his room.

I flew to his room and grabbed the bag and ran. Down the steps and out the door. Down the sidewalk and through the rain. Barefoot. In jammies. Bedhead and all. Ignoring the rocks and sticks jamming their way into the arches of my feet. The pretty (?) plaid of my jammie pants becomming splattered with mud.

 As I made the handoff of bag to Monkey I realized something. I. Am. Out. Of . Shape. Like seriously out of shape. Like if there was a murderer chasing me there would come a point where I would have to stop, turn to the guy and do the hands-on-the-knees-gasping-for-breath thing and say "Dude. Time out, k?"

I soooo hope my murderer knows the rules of Time Out.