I’ve had a “You’re Next” morning.

I can’t claim the title I’ve given my morning.  My good friend, Cassie, came up with the handle.  It fits so well, though, that I regularly find myself using it.  This is how “You’re Next” mornings go…

I wake up an hour before everyone else so that I can start a load of laundry, pack lunches and begin breakfasts. While I’m doing this, the dog stares at me…

“You’re next,” I say.

Then I go roust the girls. As I pass my husband in the hallway, he says, “Any chance you can take my clothes to the dry cleaner today?”

I say, “yes,” but I think in a not-so placatory, rather sing-song voice, “You’re next.”

I hustle down to my computer to see what awaits and a client has sent me changes to a script I wrote the day before. I type, “You’ll have this back by noon.”  I think, “You’re next.”

Still… the dog follows me.  Ever the optimist.  “You’re next,” I say aloud.  I only say it aloud to him.  He forgives me every time.

I head back to the girls’ room to make it perfectly clear that, yes, they really do have to get up NOW!  I turn around and the cat is sitting right in the middle of the hallway.

To her, I say, “Your time may never come. Get used to it.”

Back downstairs to throw the laundry in the dryer so that the girls have the beloved tights they need. To the kitchen where my husband is making his lunch and the girls are sitting on the floor next to the heat duct.  I keep them moving by getting them to the table where their breakfast awaits.

I finally go to the bathroom to pee, taking a quick glance into the mirror, I think, “You’re next.” Adding quickly to myself, “I do get priority over the damned cat!”

Run into the dog in the hallway.

“OK, come on. You’re next!” He bounds like an insane, slobbering puppy downstairs even though he is becoming a feeble old man.  I feed him. On my way up the stairs, I pass the cat. To be honest. I just feel like NOT serving one member of this family out of spite and the cat drew the short straw. She’s 17. She should be dead by now.

I’m next!

I pour my coffee and head to the shower, knowing the cat is outside the bathroom door. I can feel it. If I just fed her, then I wouldn’t see her the rest of the day! But I know I’m in one of those moods when I just can’t be mature enough to snap out of my self-pity long enough to serve the last member of this family.

It’s just that kind of day. Only 7am and I know that I’m going to feel slightly annoyed by every little task that I normally do without thinking twice. I simply don’t want to be the mother, the wife, the kennel-keeper today.

But finally, because I have kept this feline alive for 17 years so why not one more day, I do feed the cat.

And the day begins.

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