Having two kids is kicking the shit out of me

Lately I've been making a lot of excuses about why I'm late with things, or forgetting other things. My e-mails tend to read, "I've been so busy I can hardly breathe!" What does that mean, exactly?

It means you leave the house with both kids, one on your hip, one who's running to the car (per your instruction) with an armload of waterbottles, you've got a bag slung over each shoulder, baby paraphernalia dangling from the clutches of your teeth, house keys in one hand, the older one's breakfast in the other and your shoes are untied. His breakfast on this day is wheat toast with peanut butter smooshed in a few spots on the surface because you were breastfeeding the baby while making the toast and one hand alone does not a smooth spread make - but on any other day the breakfast is just as likely to be cereal, dry, eaten from the box.

Even though you're running fifteen minutes late you pray for red lights because to catch one would mean you have half a chance of getting to your destination with completed make-up for a change. Should you catch a second red light you might take your hair out of the 'messy-bun' that it's been in since last night and run your fingers through your tangled mane (which you're coming to realize is the new definition for brushing your hair). But you don't push your luck too much by speeding or driving out of control because as it is you're thanking God that everyone with teeth has had them brushed, your four year old can take responsibility for getting himself ready in the morning, you've remembered to properly buckle everyone in, and that the baby is not screaming her guts out - all the while hoping that you really do get so many miles after the gas light flashes empty because it's been on E for two days now.

Luckily you've perfected the art of driving one-handed because your right arm is elbow-deep in your bag, feeling it's way around for something, the identity of which you've already forgotten. Hopefully your fingertips will catch the smooth feel of your cell phone and you'll remember, only to realize it hasn't been charged for days. Since you're in there, you pull out a diaper, and give it a good sniff - if you've been responsible and emptied your bag the night before this should be a fresh one, but if not, it means you've got fermented urine penetrating the smooth skin of your nostrils. By the grace of God your hand locates a clean diaper from the backseat and you stick it in your bag. Throw in a snack, today's activity, an extra bib and you're good to go.

When you arrive, you take a deep breathe, a meager attempt to fortify yourself for the day ahead, and step out of the car. Arms loaded again, you head to the door and as you reach for the handle you think you might be able to keep it together, but then it opens and a wave of chaos hits you. You find the moms, the ones who you know will understand, see their haggard faces and can tell you're all on the same page today. After you've begged a q-tip for the baby's ears from the arts & crafts box, you confess that you haven't brushed your hair since Saturday, you're wearing yesterday's clothes, you can't remember the last time the kids got a bath, and isn't it ironic that it's Health & Hygiene week? Don't worry they say, one of them can't remember when her own last shower was, somebody plain forgot to brush her teeth, and someone else is picking off a bit of smug from her neighbor's shirt. Prolly chicken shit, she mumbles, but it turns out it's only a chicken feather. And by the way, your shoes are still untied.

On this day there is no denying you are one senseless tantrum away from losing it, but sometimes the adrenaline rush, and the subsequent exhilaration from arriving somewhat put together so that it appears you've got your shit in order, is enough to almost make you want to do it all over again the next day.