It's the Monday Morning Mad Dash and I'm still naked, hair dripping wet and exactly one and a half of my children are dressed. We're late, 'cause we're always late, but I'm not Frantic Late. Yet. Tuesday is having a hard time getting her socks on so I ask Grey to give her a hand.
"No, mom, 'cause I'll scratch her with my cheetah claws."
"Well, she's a cheetah too, so she'll be fine."
"But I'm the giant cheetah, so my claws will make her bleed all over the carpet. And that would make a mess."
He's got me here; I really hate messes. Meanwhile, Tuesday chimes in with "I got it" and continues on, dressing herself in true 2-year-old fashion: everything on backwards. The poor, neglected middle child, always having to fend for herself. I chase down the naked baby and wrestle him into his clothes, all the while being accosted by a never-ending refrain of "Can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate, can I open the gate NOW MOM?!"
As we head down the stairs, Grey informs me that he's Spiderman, Tuesday is Batman and Fynn is Ironman. Who the hell is Ironman, by the way? I point them all to the shoe closet and tell them to put on shoes and grab their hoodies from the pile so we can leave. And every time I call my child by his name I am politely redirected, "You mean, Spiderman?" "Yeah, Spiderman, get your Crocs on and grab your orange hoodie."
"Can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside now, can I go outside NOW MOM?!"
"Yeah, Grey, we're all ready now. Go ahead and go out to the car."
"You mean, Spiderman?"
"Right. Spiderman. Hey Batman, you ready too? How about you, Ironman?"
Oh, Monday, I'm so glad to see you.
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