Wish there was someone that I could blame.
Office manager? oh. that's me.
Secretary? cook? laundress? business manager?
nope, nope, nope. All me.
I could say that I didn't get the memo. Which I didn't.
Not the 5:45 am one beside my bed that's supposed to make loud noises and wake me up.
Not the phone call from the mommy on the deck with the little girl who had to go pee.
Or the seven phone calls after that.
Or the barking dog.
I didn't get any of those memos.
Blech. I stunk really, really, putridly badly. I slept in. Through the alarm that never went off, the phone calls, the dog. All of it. Of course, our bedroom phone was laying on the floor a room or two over, dead as a sleeping bag. Can I blame the dead phone? I didn't think so.
You'd think that after a start like that, the three runny poops, the one puking child, and the partridge in the pear tree would be no big deal. Which they weren't.
But somewhere around the time that my kids came home from school; the three children jumped on the red couch AGAIN after being told NO fifty four times, and the girl bit the boy.... well.... a little something went PING inside my head. Audibly. That was just after getting the credit card bill in the mail, listening to puking kid asking for cookies for the fifth time, and me remembering that tonight was my turn to provide snacks for 30 kids at Jane's youth group.
I delivered a rant of memorable proportions.
Something about having TWO arms and not EIGHT.
Meanwhile, it seems clear that what is really needed is a minimum of EIGHT alarm clocks. Or a new dog.
Or a much more reliable staff.