Change. Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. Somehow, I don't do well with change. Me, the girl who used to be able to load all of her personal belongings into her pickup truck and drive off into the sunset on a moment's notice. More or less. Now, it would take more than your standard Mayflower van-line to carry all my crap and the thought of driving - or sailing? - off into the sunset, while tempting on some fronts, will never happen because it would be profoundly irritating to have to create a whole new Schedule all over again. Yes, Schedule deserves to be capitalized. With three kids under the age of three, a Schedule is as close to Nirvana as we'll ever be - it's the equivalent of the Holy grail, and once found, it is not to be idly departed with, simply because, say, the cleaning persons have decided to arrive an hour later than agreed upon.

Which is ultimately at the root of my problem today. The Grail of our Schedule receives an irritating ding every week, when our cleaning persons and the babies' morning nap schedule collide, creating cranky babies, cranky me, and crank-rolls-downhill-so-the-toddler-is-pissy-now-too, thank-you very much. Added to our diarrhea and vomit-filled weekend, and you have a Monday morning that no expensive caffeine-filled tea can possibly make better. I know, because I am on cup number three, and everything still sucks.

I'm eyeing the pick-up truck as I write.