One of those days

I should have known that today would be rough.  When I blearily trudged back to Morgan's room this morning to answer her summons, she said, "How about you take me to Daddy?"  Sorry, kiddo, the weekend's over.  Daddy went back to work, so it's just me.  Pause.  "How about you take me to Daddy at work?"  Ah, don't I wish that were an option sometimes... I got her dressed in the dress of the day, with "NO LEGGINGS!!"  She got her bowl of oatmeal while I answered the call of child #2.  He beamed at me as I changed his blowout and found him some fresh clothing.  Then Morgan demanded a refill.  Then Sam wanted his breakfast.  All pretty normal so far, really.  Finally the kids are dressed, changed, and sated, so I get ready to exercise.  [side note, since I know the question of my exercising has been keeping you up at night:  I have exercised twice a week for 3 weeks, and last week I pushed it up to 3 times.  yay me]  I haven't even made it through the warm-up when Morgan smashes her finger with her "weights" (tomato paste cans) and needs comforting.  2 minutes in she's sobbing because she needs her blanket for comfort and can't get it herself.  After she's all settled with blanket and books on the couch, I smell something suspicious from Sam in his chair.  I stop exercising and discover blowout #2.  I'll spare you the rest of the workout, but it took me almost an hour to complete a 20-minute workout.  Pretty sure that I could have gotten as much out of the workout if I had just stayed on the couch with Morgan.  I'm ready to hop in the shower, emerge perky and smiling, and take my kids to the library like a good mom.  Well, right after I get in, Morgan announces that she's poopy and I need to change her.  I tell her that I'll change it as soon as I get out, which isn't the answer she wants.  She starts slamming the bathroom door open and shut, screaming "NO" in between each thud.  Finally she leaves for a bit, only to return stating that she's woken baby Sam up.  Great.  This is the reason that moms stop shaving their legs. You get in the shower for longer than 3 minutes and you end up with catastrophe.  Just to spite her, I did shave my legs, and what with the distractions and rush, cut myself more than I have since junior high.  As blood runs down my legs and I try to maneuver carefully out of the shower, she runs back in to tell me that baby Sam is crying.  And she's poopy.  And I need to come NOW.  You know those days when the kid is just plain whiny and everything you say or do leads to tears?  Morgan was having one of those days, and I couldn't take it anymore.  So I locked her out of the bathroom.  As she's sobbing, "I don't want you to be alone," I contemplate my parenting skills or lack thereof, and idly wonder how many years it will be until I can do anything in the bathroom by myself.  And then, because I'm a mother, albeit a crummy one some days, I unlocked the door, changed the poopy, comforted Sam, and started blogging.