Margaritas by 9 a.m.

You know your day is not going well when you feel like downing a couple of margaritas by 9 a.m. in the morning. Especially when you can't remember the last time you had a margarita or alcohol of any kind.

My day started with a jolt as I accidentally turned my alarm off instead of hitting the snooze. I woke up an hour later, knowing I had no hope of getting my daughter to school in time to eat her school breakfast. What is key here is that her school breakfast is her SECOND breakfast of the day...she has milk and a handful of Cheerios when she gets up at home, then, within an hour, she has a second breakfast at school...usually something like milk, a muffin, and a big slice of honeydew melon. She cannot miss the school breakfast. Or any other meal. EVER.

She's not a picky eater, my kid. I am, extremely, so I'm constantly amazed I created this little person who has yet to dislike any food I put in front of her. I feed her all kinds of healthy fruits and veggies and stuff that I don't actually eat myself and she LOVES it. So I try to ensure she always gets to school in time to have the school breakfast. She does not like to miss a meal!

So as I rushed around trying to get ready, I gave her a banana in addition to her regular breakfast since we were going to miss the school breakfast. She scarfed it in less than a minute and wanted more, so I gave her a second banana, which she also polished off quickly, and then I gave her a little extra milk. BREAKFAST ACCOMPLISHED.

Finally ready myself, I thought it would take me my normal 10 minutes to get her ready. Forty-five minutes later, sweaty and defeated, we finally left for school.

The minute I tried to get her dressed, she threw one of the biggest fits I've ever seen. She cried. She crawled away as I tried to change her diaper. She refused all my attempts to put her pants on. I took a break and gave her a minute to calm down, then tried again. More flailing and crying on the floor. Then, I tried my "I'm going to have to leave without you" trick, wherein I say, sadly, "Oh well. If you're not going to get dressed, Mommy's going to have to go ahead and go without you." Then, I take my purse, her bag, my lunch, and other assorted crap to the car, and by the time I'm back in less than a minute, she is usually eager to go with me and very compliant as I dress her. Not today! More wailing and flailing about on the floor ensued. At this point, I began talking directly to and trying to make deals with God. Seriously.

Finally, I wrestled her into her clothes and then put her socks on. She cried and tried to take them back off as if she were in pain from the socks, so totally defeated at this point, I took them back off. Then, she immediately got hysterical, crying, "Socks! Socks!" and put her feet out for me to PUT THE SAME SOCKS BACK ON. So I did. Then I put her shoes on and gave her a paci. And she finally calmed down. (Should've used the paci earlier, but I try to only let her have it in her crib and nowhere else.) Finally calm (both of us), but sweaty and frazzled (me), I  took her out to the car. Where she promptly flailed a little as I was going to put her in the car and hit her head on the corner of the car door. And then more wailing ensued. I'm sure my neighbors think I'm an awesome mom.

The 15-minute drive to her school was oddly silent. Neither of us happily sang along to the Laurie Berkner Band as we do most mornings.We were both kind of exhausted and defeated. At school, I hugged her and told her I was sorry for not handling her hysterics well and I was sure she was sorry she didn't just get dressed protest-free as she does most days. I felt it was important for both of us to own our mistakes. I then drove the few blocks to my office, went into my office, and sat down at my desk, totally deflated.

And desperately craving a couple of frosty margaritas. Like, seriously wondering, do they sell margaritas at 9 a.m.? This is San Antonio, home of the best margaritas in the world...surely someone is selling them at this time of the morning?! I'll just say I'm going on a Starbucks run and go hit a bar. I'm obviously not doing well as a mother. I need a drink!

Then, the crap started rolling in at work and I let my mommy guilt go and tried to deal with the work in front of me and get through the day.

At the end of the day, I started thinking about my poor daughter though. She is a child that lives and dies by routine. Not a schedule...just a routine. Like, if I say let's go take a bath, no matter what time of day the bath happens, she has to go get her towel first, then get in the tub, then when she gets out she tells the water goodbye, then she runs naked to her table and puts her arms up for me to pick her up and dress her. Every time. She thrives on routine.

And in the last month, her routine has been off. Way off. First, she spent three days with my parents while my husband was in the hospital. Then, my husband, a super hands-on Daddy, suddenly can't do all the many things he normally does with her and she doesn't understand why. Mommy is doing everything, including all the school runs to and fro. Nana is coming over two nights a week to handle her dinner, bath, and bedtime so Mommy can go to a class and Daddy still can't do those things. This week, Daddy is out of town at a training course, and she doesn't understand where he is. Her life's been kind of turned upside down a bit and the only thing she can do is refuse to go potty on the potty (total regression in potty training since my husband's surgery) and throw a crying fit because she doesn't know why Daddy's not there in the morning to help her get dressed or take her to school.

That's how an almost-two-year-old copes with stress. Her 37-year-old mother just craves margaritas at inappropriate times of the day.