Checkpoint

It's 7:00 a.m, and my 14 pound, blue-eyed alarm clock goes off.  She's ready to get up for the day.  I get her out of bed. She reaches up, and with one hand she "honks" my nose, and with the other she pinches my cheek.  Hard.  So hard, in fact, that I actually have to check to see if she drew blood with her little baby talons.  So I walk to the mirror, catch a glimpse of myself and stifle a scream.  My hair looks like I licked an outlet. Great.  On my way out of the bedroom, I trip over a pile of laundry and just before we both hit the hardwood floor, I catch myself on the door frame.  Sarah Claire thinks our near-concussion experience is hilarious, and squeals to prove it.  I'm glad someone is enjoying this.

We make it to the kitchen and I see my checkpoint: the coffee pot.  I reach in the cabinet and nearly laugh out loud when the mug I grab says "Best Mom" on it.  It's about the size of a five gallon bucket. Even my hazy, sleep-dprived brain can connect the ironic dots: I'm not sure that the "best mom" would require this kind of caffeinated help.  I do, though, and I fill my mug to the brim.

I put Sarah Claire in her jumperoo and sit down at the table beside her.  I take a few sips of my coffee.  It tastes like Heaven.  I pull my knees up to my chest and  watch her as she squeaks every toy around her.  I have to laugh.  She's so proud of herself.  She looks up at me, blows raspberries and grins.  She stretches her arms up to show me that she wants me to hold her, and I realize something: She doesn't care one bit if my hair makes me look like Dolly Parton and Russell Brand's offspring.  My hair, in fact, is at the bottom of her priority list.  Realizing this makes it drop a few notches on my list too.

I pick her up, and realize that I can't live today again.  I decide just to be thankful that I have a daughter and husband who don't care if I fix my hair or not.  I'm so grateful for that.  That- and my five gallon mug of coffee.