Rush Hour

This morning, when my husband was kind enough to drop me off at work since my car is having surgery, he got a little confused as I slid in between the dashboard and the passenger seat instead of getting out.

‘Oh baby, in front of our local PD?’ He joked, and I had to punch him in the shins.

‘Look in my bag, I think I have a spare bra in there.’

‘Why would you keep a spare bra in your b- You know what, I’m not going to ask.’

Here’s the answer to that question, though:

I need more hours in my mornings. Seriously. A lot more. At least one for each child, I’d say, plus a few extra minutes for the dogs.

This morning I had to take a shower with an audience, because Thing 1 decided she’d much rather enjoy a steam with mommy in the bathroom than sleep past 5.30am, while The Boy decided that this was an excellent time to get up and discuss some wardrobe choices with me. Which was fine, untill…

‘Ahw NO, don’t poop in here!’

… My dog decided she’d waited long enough and joined us in the bathroom, making her point by attempting to take a gigantic dump on the mat. My time was limited.

‘NO!’ I told her while toweling off so fast that I nearly set myself on fire. ‘WAIT!’

So I threw my clothes on and – well, I forgot to put on a bra.

Because these are our mornings when Max is coming of a 24-hour shift. It’s chaotic, loud, and apparently bra-less. Since it’s not the first time this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last, I keep a spare one in my bag just in case.

Which I then have to put on in the car right before I go into work, because that’s usually when I realize I’m feeling a little too free.

Trade, anyone?

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