This morning the Cintas guy who swaps our out dirty rugs and warehouse uniforms for clean ones saw me at my desk and proclaimed “Looks like you’re having a Monday!”. Ouch. I admit, my hair isn’t done, I pulled it up and hoped to hide the bit of conditioner I left in there from Sunday morning’s deep conditioning. My sweater is a little old but not the dingiest thing I have seen in the office today. I have bags under my eyes as I haven’t been able to sleep well this past week, sleeping next to someone with a TBI can be a bit of a challenge. I did put on makeup and even curled my eyelashes in an attempt to look put together but apparently it failed.
I had every intention of washing and blowing out my hair this morning. I was down stairs and heading for the shower when a little voice came up behind me. This little voice was that of my very proud 3 year old who does things on her own schedule. She woke up dry and ready to use the potty. I was beyond happy for her, I knew she could do it but she just needed to confidence to try. So instead of getting in the shower and readying myself for the day I made French toast per the request of the little girl in dry Olaf undies.
I wasn’t home the first time she went #2 in the potty. I miss all the mid-morning dace offs (a tradition I started, for the record). I am not the keeper of the peanut butter at lunch time but I was the one to hug her and celebrate with her on her fist successful attempt of a diaperless night. If that kid wanted French toast you bet your ass she was getting it and maybe that left me with no time to be the dressed up version of myself that I usually am at work but I don’t care. You may think I look like a Monday but I feel like a Friday afternoon. It was a big morning at our house and I was there to celebrate.