Remembering a past life

Some mornings you wake up and there are about 17 different things to accomplish before you can have breakfast, or even a quiet cup of coffee. I'm not kidding. Forget about my own morning routine and giving in to that desire for 5 more minutes of blissful snooze. (Hey, not my fault if the channel changed 'Supernatural' timings to 10PM instead of 9...a girl's gotta have her dose of ghosts and mysteries and eye candy at the end of a long hard day). The typical non-weekend morning also involves getting a reluctant kid awake, fed, bathed, dressed and ready for school. And a borderline-competent cook who has a tendency to pull disappearing acts, supervised to get a decent meal out. And a dog walked, exercised, fed and watered. If I'm lucky, a workout. (On second thoughts, as if all this isn't!). A nourishing breakfast prepared. Two lunch boxes packed. Compare it to the pre-motherhood routine that involved only about 5 things before jumping in the car to head to work. Motherhood has managed to get my a** in gear like nothing before it.
There are days when I look at a house that can't stay tidy for more than 5 minutes, where no two bedsheets and pillowcases match, where a false move can make you trip on a stray toy. There are days when I curse every freakin' jigsaw piece and building block in existence. Every time, I can almost hear my former super-organized, neat freak self from a past life laughing. My weekend sleeping-in, pedicure-getting, wanderlust-indulging, book-reading-in-coffee-shop loving single self...well, did she really exist? Maybe she did. But you know what; now few things can beat the sight of a tiny figure in white pyjamas running up to her first thing in the morning.