This morning came early. The second day back is always worse than the first. I remember accidentally clicking "OK" on my phone's alarm rather than "Snooze" and then cursing at myself. I remember setting a second alarm for 13 minutes later because, really, if I'm going to snooze, I want more than 9 measly minutes, and then laying down for what seemed like 30 seconds and having a dream about having ducks as well as chickens (no, I do not want ducks, and my psyche needs to accept this apparently). I remember the alarm waking me up AGAIN and realizing that I could not, in fact, do this all day... and then I remember dragging my tired keester out of bed.
Since misery loves company, I hauled myself down the hall into M2's room to wake her up. (M1 had already slept through his alarm and I warned him yesterday that I was not going to wake him up this morning till it was time for breakfast, and I kept my word and only went into his room to turn on his light, bend down into his face, and pronounce, "LAST CALL FOR BREAKFAST!" at which time he was up and moving in less than 15 seconds. Magic, I tell ya.) M2 had a rough time waking up, but once she got moving, I went back and changed and then puttered into the kitchen to get breakfast going and start making a menu/grocery list for the week because amazingly, while my 8-year-old can't manage to get himself out of bed for love nor money and certainly can't be relied upon to DO things after he's up - other than pester his sister and pee on the bathroom floor - the 5.5-year-old can get herself up, make her bed, dress herself neatly, brush her hair, and present for breakfast in less than 15 minutes. And her pajamas will not be found later dangling from the top of random furniture.
Boys are a conundrum that I have yet to unravel.
Anyway, M2 came into the kitchen a bit later and reached up for a hug. I gave her one and then told her, "Tuck your shirt in."
"It doesn't STAY tucked in, MOM." (OK, so the price I pay for having a child promptly dressed before breakfast without screaming is early morning sass. I can deal with a lot for the sake of not yelling.)
"Well, tuck it in or you're not going to school."
*stuff stuff stuff*
30 seconds later it was untucked again. I debated whether to make her change into one of the other myriad shirts she had squished into her school uniform shirt drawer and decided, in a nutshell, pthththththththth.
She ate. The boy got to eat about half his breakfast while bleary-eyed. M2 got up from the table to brush her teeth, and the shirt was untucked again. She tucked it in and brushed her teeth. It came untucked again. I did suggest that she change at this point, but she refused. She came out to put on her shoes and coat, and it came untucked again. She tucked it in. I asked again if she wanted to change. No, she did not, MOM, and wasn't I listening when she said it the first time? We drove to school and she tucked the shirt in again on the way to the classroom. At this point, I was about to lose my mind at the idea of her doing this all day. Her teacher saw her tucking in her shirt again and said, "Is it too small?"
"Yes," I said. "But she won't change."
"They're ALL too small, MOM," announced Girl Who Wanted a Smackdown in Public.
I raised an eyebrow at the sass. Her teacher smiled and watched as M2 hitched her pants up to try to keep her shirt in for more than 45 seconds. "She's been growing. Do you want to take her down to the uniform closet and see if there's anything in there?"
Apparently *that* was agreeable to M2. I marched her in that direction and didn't bother saying to her or the teacher that I had emptied the uniform closet of anything from the now-too-small size to about two sizes larger before the school started and crossed my fingers that someone had donated one in M2's size between the beginning of school and now.
We were in luck. There was ONE long-sleeved girl's shirt that was only a hair too big and tucked in nicely.
I put the offending shirt back in the closet and am bringing the rest of that size in this afternoon... before we take her violin in to be traded for the next size up as well.
Girl gotta quit growing. My wallet hurts. Growing pains suck.