My mornings follow a fairly predictable routine. I love routines. I like to think of myself as this spontaneous, wild-flower sort of a being but it is completely not true. I like routines and order and most of all I like coffee.
So...my routine is this. Every morning at around 5.15 my alarm goes off (so I can do Pilates, obviously). I then hit snooze. TWICE. The phone (which is my handy-dandy alarm system) gives up all hope of me ever getting out of bed much less doing an actual crunch and we all go back to sleep (me and the phone that is, Hubs has already left for work at around 5...yeah, that's AM folks).
Then sometime between 6:15 and 6:30, I groggily pull myself out of bed and stumble off to fill the coffee maker (which as a responsible, coffee-requiring adult I SHOULD have done the night before). As it is, I have to tip-toe to the kitchen, measure out the coffee grounds and fill the pot with water, then navigate my way back to my bedroom where I have oh-so-cunningly hidden the coffee-maker (in a vain effort to keep my eagle-eared youngling from hearing it and deciding its time to rise and shine).
All of this is in the dark mind you (I mean, I COULD turn on the lights...but we are clear that I haven't actually HAD my coffee yet), so I inevitably stumble over a child's chair, or shoe, or once (and this was a good one) a tow-truck whose sirens and lights kicked on (so now I'm cursing, hopping and trying to get back to the coffee maker ASAP).
Once I begin to hear the soothing tones of gurgling and whooshing, I breathe a sigh of relief and go to let our long-suffering puppy out.
I (again, very quietly and on my tippiest of tippy toes) take her outside, feed her and give her fresh water.
Then I can come back out with my delicious, steaming, way-over-sweetened-and-that's-why-its-awesome cuppa joe. I have at least 6.75 minutes to myself before the kid's are up and all hell breaks loose.
Oh blessed routine.
Alas, not today.
Today, I got to revel in the joys of nature. Mother-f*^$ker.
Loki (that's the dog folks) seemed a scotch twitchy when we got outside this morning. Turns out there was a frog the size of a small Mercedes be-bopping around under our grill. She (the dog) was jazzed. She (the frog) was not. So, in an effort to protect all forms of life currently residing on my porch, I started to edge her (the frog) towards the grass. She (the frog...hmmm, maybe I'll start calling her a him since its really hard to gender check a frog at 6:45 in the am), begins to hippity-hoppity her way TOWARDS the dog. Stupid frog. The dog begins to salivate with glee (apparently she doesn't remember vomiting the LAST time she ate a frog). Stupid dog.
So I circle. And then I circle again.
After 5 or 6 minutes I almost have her/him/it at the edge of the porch, when it makes a final herculean bid for safety and JUMPS THROUGH MY OPEN SLIDER DOOR. Awesome. I have now chased a 47 pound amphibian INTO my house.
So we scuttle around in there for a few minutes. I finally get up the gumption to JUST PICK THE DAMN THING UP ALREADY and take it outside. At this point it begins to ooze some sort of white gunk out of its gills ONTO MY HANDS, so I have just SAVED LOKI'S LIFE BY PREVENTING HER FROM EATING A POISONOUS TOAD but she's all crankity that I wouldn't let her have a second breakfast.
And I still haven't had my coffee.
My son's light flicks on.
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