A morning in the life

It occurred to me this morning that I spend a lot of blog posts writing about little snippets of Rachel's day without giving all of you a true picture of what it's truly like. So, here is a sampling of a typical weekday:

I wake up, usually on time to get us out of the house by 8.
I lie in bed thinking about how my life has changed from a year ago.
I get up, turn on my Smartphone and check for messages, make the bed, load the car -- with my work bag, my purse, Rachel's lunch, my yogurt and granola, and turn on the water for tea.
I shower, put makeup on, rescue the screaming teakettle, pour the tea into my "Willamette University" mug, get dressed, take out the coat I'm going to wear that day, then wake Rachel up.

Rachel is often cheerful in the morning but sometimes grumbly. Today she said, "I want to stay in my bed." I was very sympathetic. "I want to stay in my bed, too, sweetie, but Mommy needs to go to work, and you need to go to school," I said firmly.
We cuddle in the glider and then Rachel always insists on "one BOOK." So, I read whatever she wants. Then she wants to cuddle. And cuddle. And cuddle. And eventually I have to put a stop to it, which I hate.
I swing her from side to side and she laughs like a maniac. Then I put her on the changing table and let her choose what she wants to wear that day. Sometimes the clothes (always pants and a shirt) vaguely match. Most of the time they don't.
Then I put her on the floor and tell her to choose socks and shoes. She has a knack for choosing socks that have nothing to do with what she's wearing. I think briefly of explaining to the folks at daycare that I don't have as bad taste as they may think I do. Then I reject that idea.
Rachel insists on doing a headstand in my lap. "Rachel, NO!" I say despairingly, but we HAVE to do this every morning. It's part of the routine. The world would end if we didn't.
I ask her to give me her pacifiers (she routinely keeps two with her, just in case her stuffed animals decide to hide one of them).
She hands them over and I stuff them in the clothes basket.
We go into the kitchen and she tells me to wear the pink raincoat I bought from L.L. Bean a few weeks ago because I desperately needed a full-length raincoat. "Because it's my favorite," she explains seriously, so I always wear it. Even if it looks like a Caribbean morning outside. The coat is her FAVORITE. Pretty soon she'll think my clothes are hopelessly out of date, so I need to seize this moment.
I ask her if she wants milk in the purple cup or green cup. She fakes me out and announces she wants milk in the pink cup.
I ask her if she wants Cheerios or Raisin Bran. She says Wheaties. I say we have none. She cheerfully says Raisin Bran.
I load her up in the car, hand her her bag of cereal, her tiny stuffed bunny and a book or two. It's now 30 minutes later than when I wanted to leave.

We head south on I-5. At the point that we enter the freeway, the sun (if it's sunny that day), shines right in Rachel's eye. "The sun is peeking over my EYE!" she announces delightedly. "Why IS that?"
I give whatever explanation pops into my head: The angle of the sun and the low buildings mean the sun hits her eyes and Mommy's, too.
Then she asks me to sing the Fire Truck Song, or the Changes Song (Bob Dylan's "The Times They Are A'Changin') or the Follow Song ("Try To Remember" from the musical The Fantasticks; the lyrics contain the words "so follow, follow follow follow follow follow follow...) and I tell her to wait until Mommy has finished her yogurt and granola and tea.

And then it's singing and talking (her observing, me commenting) all the way to Salem.