Fakefetch

I'm breaking a sweat, eyebrows forming a monobrow the way I'm furrowing them, and all that's happened so far is my alarm went off. Then it fell on the ground. Well, got slammed on the ground. I hate Mondays.

The kitchen tiles are cold under my feet, but the laundry isn't dry and the dog ate one of my slippers last night. Shoot, the dog needs to go out.

The dog got out just in time. Now the kids are waking up. I just love hearing their honey-sweet voices first thing every morning. "GeT oUt Of tHe BaThroOm aLreAdy!" "WheRe'D yOu Put mY ToOthpAste?" "DoN't MaKe Us LaTe!"

No, they're not even teens yet.

I start the coffee maker, open a cupboard. Doug, my darling husband, has once again taken my favorite travel mug to work with him. It's fine, I say aloud, but I'm still cold and the dog has started barking and the kids are slamming doors and the coffee maker is about to pour coffee all over my unswept floor. So I grab the first mug I see.

Finally, the kids are grabbing their school bags and heading to the door, yelling at me to hurry while I toss their dirty breakfast plates into the sink. I think I heard one crack.

I'm rushing out then remember my keys on the counter. I reach for them, then once again, then a third time. Still they're not in my hands. I sigh, exasperated.

And it's only Monday.