This week almost killed me.
Metaphorically, of course, but still. That would make me metaphorically dead, and I'm sure that isn't fun at all.
Back in March I signed Sam and Lucy up for preschool. The school I choose goes all the way up through 8th grade, so I figured if we liked it we could just keep sending them there. They informed me that since the kids would be different ages that they would be in different classes. What they didn't mention was that the classes were held at different times, because there is only one pre-school teacher. So back at the beginning of the month I found out that Lucy would be in class from 8-11 and Sam would be in class from 12-3. I also learned that there was no pre/post care for the preschoolers, so I wouldn't be able to just leave one of them there for an extra hour so that I didn't have to make four individual trips to the school each day.
By the end of the day Monday I was a quivering heap, and so was Maggie, who had almost no nap to speak of. I've arranged some carpooling for next week, and we got a babysitter from the university who starts on Monday, so I'm hoping I won't feel so wrecked next Friday.
Having the kids in school was supposed to make my life a little easier, right? Except now I'm getting up at the same time as SOB so I can get everyone up and dressed and fed and out the door by 7:35 each morning, and I have three loads of laundry to fold and put away and there are dishes in the sink from god knows when and and and.
I'm going to go catch a short nap before I have to wake everone else up to get in the car to pick up Sam. Wish me luck.
