Tradition mandates that I make chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast on the first day of school, a tradition that started when my son was in preschool and has continued to this, his senior year. I also demand pictures on the front porch with no whining. I never have trouble getting anyone up on the first day, no matter how wired they were the night before. It's the FIRST DAY, after all. All new trails to blaze.
One of the cats jumped up on the bed around 5:30 a.m. and insisted on sleeping with me, on me, next to me. I was already having the temperature control issues, and having a furry, 15 pound cat on me wasn't helping, but somehow I managed to fall back asleep. And sleep. And sleep. And sleep. I was in the middle of another bad dream when my eyes flew open, I looked at the alarm clock next to the bed, and saw that it said 7:30. WHAAAA??? I tried to sit up, flailing around instead since I can't sit bolt upright yet, the cat shot off the bed, the husband said, "What's wrong?!" and the son was found sitting in the chair next to our bed, stretching. I started yelling, "It's 7:30! The alarm didn't go off! We're late! Get up, GET UP!!!" My husband was still trying to compute what I was saying as I rolled out of bed and stood up, only to drop to the floor like a sack of potatoes because my right leg was dead asleep, a direct result of lying in one position too long to accommodate the cat.
My husband was asking my son why he was just SITTING there, not looking at the time, to which my son claimed he noticed it was almost 7:00 when he came in, but he didn't say anything and then he kind of fell back asleep (my alarm was set for 6:00, by the way). I tried to stand up and crumpled to the floor again, my leg still completely dead. All that was going through my mind at that point was that my daughter was going to kill me for not getting her up in time to fix her hair. I got enough feeling in my leg that I was finally able to stagger down the hall to her room and throw open the door, only to find her completely dressed and calmly finishing her hair. I said, "It's 7:30! We overslept!" She paused to look at me, then said, "I thought it was awfully quiet in your room." I ran back to my room to throw on some clothes, calling out, "No chocolate chip pancakes this morning! There's no time!"
Once I got to the kitchen, common sense prevailed when I realized the kids needed to eat SOMETHING before they went to school, they don't HAVE to be at school until 8:30, although both of them want to be there by 7:45 to socialize, and I might as well make the pancakes. I wrestled the griddle down from the cabinet and made them. The kids rushed in and gulped some down. We went to the front porch to take the mandatory pictures (no whining), and off we all went: my husband to work, my son to the high school, and me driving my daughter to middle school and getting caught in the crush of parents whose kids DON'T want to be there early to socialize.
I got home, went upstairs so I could finally take MY shower and get ready to take on the day, and I realized that I didn't take individual pictures of the kids like I do EVERY SINGLE YEAR. All I had was the two of them together. And it was at that point that I fell apart.
Hormone therapy sucks sometimes. I'm NOT a moody person. I do NOT fall apart easily. I am NOT that much of a crier. It's taken almost three months of taking Arimidex and Zolodex, but they have won and I have lost. I am now a hormonal, emotional basket case. Is it the end of the world that I didn't get individual pictures of the kids this morning? No. (And don't suggest that I do it tomorrow. A re-enactment does NOT COUNT.) I KNOW that my reaction is disproportionate to what has happened, yet I am powerless to stop the tears when they decide to flow, and that makes me feel like a big ol' crybaby. I also know that I am a very lucky girl, because things could be so much worse for me than just some raging hormones. I'll pull myself together in a bit. I always do. But until then, I'll draw myself a bubble bath and have my pity party in the tub, killing two birds with one stone by soaking both my tender stitches and my tender psyche at the same time, with a nap thrown in for good measure. Tomorrow is another day, says this Scarlett O'Hara. The alarm clock will work, the tears will stop, the cat will sleep SOMEWHERE ELSE, and cotton prices will go sky high. Fiddle-dee-dee.