It's been an inspirational morning.  The sun was shining, birds were singing, the cows mooing, the cat and the dog were chasing one another around the house, and the kids were grumbling when I woke them up.  They were tired.  We stayed up too late last night, after a somewhat acrimonious game of Scrabble in which I miraculously won the game with "ZEPHYR," tacking it expertly onto the silent "E" at the end the word "REQUITE" - much to the chagrin of my daughter, who previously held the lead.  Scrabble is blood sport in our house, and it has been proposed by certain parties that I should be handicapped by not being allowed to have any vowels. The subsequent demonstration of poor sportsmanship was from neither myself nor my daughter, but my son, delighted his sister had not won, who gave an end-zone celebration that would make Terrell Owens appear modest. My daughter, of course, responded with all the graciousness and tact of an irritated wolverine.

If the ensuing fight had taken place outdoors, I would simply have gotten the hose to break it up.

For the morning-after-the-night-before, I made scrambled eggs, toast, and hot chocolate in hopes of dispelling the gloom with a breakfast slightly more complicated than Cheerios, but my son quickly burst my bubble by letting me know I shouldn't make toast on the mornings that he woke up late, because "it takes too long to chew."  I would have been satisfied with a moderately enthusiastic grunt of acknowledgement. Unless my better self triumphs, that kid is getting eggs, toast, and hot chocolate again tomorrow morning, straight from the blender, in a glass with a straw.

My daughter, insisting she had nothing to wear and that this must somehow be my fault (incidentally I did laundry yesterday, five loads of it), finally appeared dressed in black from head to toe on what is supposed to be one of the warmest, sunniest days we've had this year.  Either I opted to "choose my battle" or engaged in passive-aggressive retribution by not suggesting she change into a lighter colored outfit.

Meanwhile, I wasn't dressed, and the poor dog practically had her legs crossed at that point - so I grabbed my mom's coat, threw it on over my pyjamas, and slipped on the nearest pair of shoes, my son's Vans, although his feet are larger than mine, and trundled off down the street looking like a homeless person wearing clown shoes, with an inexplicably well-groomed small dog. My neighbors have gotten used to this and don't call the police anymore.

Only afterward did I remember that my son tends to have athlete's foot, so that grabbing his shoes in a moment of oblivious time-saving zeal is probably not the best idea.  It's like when the school sends home a letter that informs you lice have been found in your child's classroom, and instantly your head begins to itch - my feet were suddenly burning.  Knowing it was probably psychosomatic, I ignored it.

The second my son is seated in the car, he begins to talk about his personal interests - Minecraft, trumpet, building models, geckos, track, zombies, and Dr. Who.  He never pauses to take breath, if you interrupt, he answers you and then smoothly transitions back to whatever he was discussing before you tried to change the subject.  He once talked non-stop for four hours on a trip to South Lake Tahoe.  So I made him ride his bike this morning.  I dropped my daughter off at school on my way to teach, she made a few non-committal disgusted noises in the car, and then pretended she didn't know me when we arrived at the drop-off zone.

Work on Wednesdays is teaching a ballet/pilates hybrid class.  I haven't taught this class before, and find it somewhat challenging due to the varied fitness levels of the students, who range from a young woman who looks like she could moonlight as a competitive cheerleader to a septuagenarian with a hip replacement.  So I give three modifications for every exercise, talk even more than my son on a road trip, and the class inevitably runs over by at least 15 minutes, closer to 20 today.  Which means I left too late to make it to the ice-skating rink for the open adult session, my favorite Wednesday self-indulgence and sanity saver.

And there went my morning.

"What am I doing with this crazy lady in her jammies, an oversized quilted coat and clown shoes?"