Morning Glory

You know how sometimes you cling to the smallest but nonetheless meaningful rituals to get you through the day?  Well every morning, I get a tiny burst of excitement as I hear the sturdy little footsteps of Egg clomping upstairs to deliver my morning cappuccino.  The husband is far better than I about getting himself up in the morning (save weekends when it all goes to pot and I am left downstairs in the apocalyptic kitchen trying to wade through to the fridge and conjure up something breakfast like while he lies in bed silent, immovable and immune to the random shrieks and screams that filter upstairs...)

Anyway I digress.  Pretty much every morning I wait for the husband to depart our third floor bedroom before painfully opening one eye and surveying the mountain of clothes piled up on HIS side of the room.

"Get me some furniture then" he retorts whenever I draw his attention to the depressing monstrosity which appears to gain in size and stature every time i look at it.  He has a point...

The dj on the radio is blethering on about something or other and often the unmistakable strains of Dumpie practicing on his (loud) xylophone can be heard from the floor below.  Soon though I know Eggie shall walk through the door, lips pursed in concentration, bearing a big steaming mug of my caffeinated morning elixer.  

He is usually not very successful at accomplishing 0% spillage, and so, a short while later as I make my way downstairs bearing mug, the husband's water glass from the night before (which he ALWAYS forgets to bring down!), my laptop (i sleep with it dontcha know), and other assorted accoutrements collected during the journey down, I am never quite sure whether the brownish spots on the carpet are:

a) spilled coffee

b) bits of melted chocolate

c) 'bum-prints' from the Dumps who is still potty training himself

Which brings me to my final note.  I HATE POTTY TRAINING!!!  

I do.  No matter how much I adore the little monsters, there is just something fundamentally wrong about cramming my fingers into greasy little cavities to extract bits of feces whilst getting some on my newly manicured nails, clothes, and even my hair (yes, it has happened).

I used to do the 'scratch n' sniff' test, bending down to ascertain the origin and subsequent method needed to remove said stain from carpet, but these days I just make a mental note to come back upstairs with my heavy duty carpet mousse at some point, drown the stuff in it and hope for the best.

In fact that's the way I seem to be living my life these days.  Whether it's effective is not quite clear, but the days do roll forward with a reassuring predictability, and we're all still here.  Ever since I purposely hid my 'Daytimer' with all it's depressing to-do lists, things seem to be going along more smoothly.

What I don't know won't hurt me....right?  (Tell that to the librarian regarding my overdue library books....)