Hardest part of the morning


It occurred to me today as I stared despondently at my open dresser drawer, that getting dressed shouldn’t be the hardest part of my morning. The laundry room has a heap of items waiting for me to sort through into categories of ‘Try-to-get-this-stain-out’ and ‘Don’t-even-bother’ piles, and yet the hardest decisions of the day are usually what top to put on. This is the time of day I envy bottle-feeders.

First I eliminate the clothing options that will impede access to relevant areas, come baby-feeding time. (That eliminates most of them.) Then I eliminate the options that are too big, or too cold. Then I eliminate the ones that haven’t caught up with the laundry, so have the not-so-quaint aroma of sweat and baby puke.

Then that leaves me with nothing. So I have to start the process of elimination again, this time having to leave a preference out. (This is how I end up either wearing smelly clothes, or getting sore muscles from having them clenched against the cold for the whole day.)

Things were so much simpler when my complaint of having a full drawer unit but ‘nothing to wear’ was based on my attempts to get the cute boy across the classroom to notice me. (He never did, anyway. And at the end of that year the teacher told my parents I’d had the Dux cup “in the bag” until I got distracted [by the cute boy] and let my academic efforts slip. I’m still angry at myself for that. He wasn’t anywhere near cute enough to warrant that achievement sacrifice.)

Now the challenge is finding clothes that are warm, that fit, and that will allow a creature to hang off my front every few hours. This is a part of motherhood the books hadn’t told me about: getting dressed just may be the most frustrating part of the morning.

Excuse me, now. I must go find a beanie to stave off the cold, then make yet another hot drink to try to warm myself from the inside out.

Then do a load of laundry, with tops in it.


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