Thursdays are horrible days. William has swim class at 8:30 AM, half an hour away. Grace then attends ballet class at 10:15, forty five minutes away from the pool. Getting them up, ready and out the door is like a punishment. Here's how last Thursday went.
The kids were eating breakfast as I assembled their bags, rushing around like a crazy person, wondering why I hadn't done this the night before (oh, that's right — I just HAD to watch Big Brother 8). I heard William's voice:
"Yes, William. Apple juice."
"I have apple juice."
"Yes, sweetie. I know," I say. Thanks for the update, Captian Obvious, I think to myself.
"Uh — ohhhhhhhhh..."
I went back to the table to find him holding an empty cup above a pool of sticky apple juice. Instinctively, I looked at Gracie, as if she had used a Jedi Mind Trick to influence her brother. That's when I noticed my mistake.
I had given the sippy cup to Grace and the open-mouth cup to William, who did exactly what a 2-year-old would do with one of those things.
Actually, I wondered, why did I switch their cups in the first place? Perhaps Grace is a Jedi after all...
I cleaned up and plopped them in front of PBS's Super Why! while I packed the car. We were about to leave when I realized I hadn't packed my own stuff for the pool. So, I ran upstaris, swearing under my breath, to get a swimsuit and a towel.
From downstairs, I heard this:
Grace: "Ball on the head! Ball on the head! Ball on the head!"
I walked downstairs and into the livingroom, where William was sitting with tear-stained cheeks. Grace was holding a green playground ball on the floor next to him.
"Grace," I said, "don't put a ball on his head."
"They why did you say, ‘Ball on the head?'"
"I don't know."
Um hmm, I thought.
We arrive at the pool, and I William and I change into our swimsuits. We're about to walk into the pool area when I look at her shoes.
Hard soles. No hard soles are allowed in the pool area, and the "YMCA Pool Gestapo" are very strict about the rules. "Grace," I say, "You'll have to take off your sh-"
I freeze mid-sentence. She's wearing tights for ballet. Under her clothes. Under her leotard. I'll have to strip her completely naked just to get in her bare feet. I'm not doing it.
"What, daddy?" she asks.
"Nevermind," I say. "Let's just go."
We walk into the pool area, and I'm expecting barking dogs and search lights.
An hour later, we drove to the ballet studio (we were late), where I found out that Grace's slippers were too small (they had no new ones in her size). I went to the cafe next door to buy a drink, but they were closed.
The best part is that all this fun took place before 11:00 AM. Here's hoping you had a better morning.