Sunday mornings at Boy House are a little stressed. No matter how organized and efficient I attempt to be on Saturday night, by Sunday morning at 8:00 am I'm in the drill Sargent mode, no one with in eye site is immune to my orders and commands.
"GET UP!" Teenagers.
"Did you shower?" What is it with 12 year olds, are they allergic to soap and water?
"Take your shoes to Daddy!" Shoes are Adorable Hubby's job.
" Help you brother find his shoes!" Every frickin' week!
"#6, shoes belong on your feet or in the shoe basket!" For the 10 billionth time!
"NO! white socks don't go with Sunday pants!" We're so classy.
"GET UP!" Teenagers, arghh!
"Put some toast in!" We eat a LOT of toast on Sundays!
"Comb your hair!" What is it with 12 year old boys?
" Leaving in5 minutes, 5 minutes!" This is all Adorable Hubby, he's the self appointed time keeper. Only time I really want to smack him!
And somewhere in the middle of all this the lone female, me, is madly, showering, blow drying, make-uping, deodorizing, and dressing hoping to beat that, "Leaving in 5 minutes" deadline.
So, last Sunday morning was the first morning with our 17 year old foster son thrown into the mix. I'm shouting orders as per usual at him and everyone else, walk into the bathroom, look in the mirror to see what my next get ready step is.
And realize I'm wearing nothing but a towel!
It's for real, #8 is officially one of my sons! Poor Thing!