It's 1:15pm and I've just finished my fist meal of the day. I haven't even had my coffee yet! I crawled out of bed, did my customary weigh-in (let's be real, most of us do it!), did a quick grooming session and got to work. Today is Tuesday, and my son, the 2 year old, has speech therapy. This means that the state my house was in was simply unacceptable by my standards. I thought about having the coffee, so I got the coffee maker started up for some fresh brew.
Before that I had to make sure that my 4 year old was happy with her Sesame Street on. Then it was off to fix the kids breakfast, get my son out of bed and dressed, argue with the 4 year old about why a lid for her straw cup was appropriate and non-negotiable, organize toys, vacuum and scrub floors, explain to the 4 year old that the toys she has just strewn about was an affront to my cleanliness and that she should at least wait the standard 2 hours before making such a mess after her mother has just lovingly cleaned everything, fix the vacuum, switch to the next episode of Sesame Street, finish the vacuuming and then more arguing with the 4 year old about why I want her in regular clothes and not pajamas. At this point, she decides to just throw down and have a kicking and screaming fit.
The doorbell rings, I pop out to answer it and let the speech therapist in. I excuse myself and the little girl and suggest that she get dressed now that she sees that I wasn't making up the fact that we were going to have a visitor. Naturally, the 4 year old is perfectly behaved now that someone else is here, and is willing to dress in the original choice of outfit that I had suggested and she's been a perfect angel ever since. Brilliant.