...1 (in days gone by)...

 Every once in a while, 'memories' pop up on one social media platform or another and I think to myself, I ought to copy that over to here.  I think it...and make a mental note...and then promptly forget again.

 Such was the case, once again, yesterday...when I first logged onto Facebook in the early hours and took a little detour from prep work , to traipse down memory lane.

So, this one's for me: a (hopefully fully manifested) series of 'past posts', come home to roost.

In Days Gone By:
18.June.2019

I slept through the alarm this morning.

Okay...not really.

More like...I dozed off after waking up just long enough to turn it off.

"Came to" some ten minutes later, with the heart-racing adrenaline rush when your brain knows you have s*** to do but your body is trying to pretend it's still nighttime.

The achy breaky stumble through morning routine commenced. Coffee? Check. Breakfast? Check. Clothes laid out? Check. Check. Check.

He hopped into the shower. I slumped over the kitchen table in between "2 minute warnings"...the coffee mug just out of reach.

Gurgle in the pipes as the shower stopped. Reminder to hurry again... Then...out...in a flurry of towel and drippy hair and shower thoughts about Transformers. (Of course!) He's off to get dressed. I'm off to make the beds-wash the breakfast dishes-download my workload-stumble over the cat once-twice-three times the charm!

It's Finals Week. Everything is off kilter.

No lunch prep needed. But snack and drink, and tea for the bus stop-wait. Check the bookbag. The rescue remedy refill reminder clearly didn't work-empty pill fob. Run through my checklist as I count out 9 pastilles-cram and twist to close. Chromebook? Check. Sharpened pencils? Check. With erasers? Err....crap...nope....where's the damn box? Check. Drawing pad? Check. Earbuds? Check. Glasses? Check. Check. Check.

Hazard a quick glance at the clock...woah, running late! My yell to "hurry up" answered by his "I can't" whimper as out he finally comes...shirt-tails flapping, hair still dripping.

"Mami? I wanted to wear this one, but..."

He's replaced the shirt I laid out with yet another blue and turquoise, plaid, short sleeve button-down. Yes...full title needed. Under no circumstances can we simply say shirt or blue shirt or even blue plaid shirt. Full. Title. Needed. "Precision of Language!"

So here he stands, in the middle of the kitchen, blue and turquoise, plaid, short sleeve button-down half on, offering up to me The Problem. "I wanted to wear this one, but look...." The buttonhole is torn. No doubt from his new(ish) stim of tugging on his hems...shirts, shorts, even socks...everything gets tugged.

"How about..." I start to say, but cut the half-formed thought off. Yeah, no. There's no how or why or rhyme or reason. It's Finals Week and everything needs to be just-so...calm, cool and collected, so that brain of his can churn away and spit back all the facts it's been crammed full of all year. There's no room for distraction or discomfort. No room for entertaining alternates. There is just this shirt-the first and only choice-and two minutes before our bus alarm goes off.

"Okay, I've got this" I say, as I wrestle him out of it...his arms, still damp, sticking to the sleeves. Off he goes to grab his robe...he does NOT do shirtless. Off I go to retrieve my sewing box. Precious time wasted as I try once-twice-seventeen million times, to thread the needle. Finally my brain processes the thread width vs. the needle eye size. New needle? Oh, yes, in the tin. The tin that WON'T OPEN! Argh! Yank, twist...sweating now. Glance at that clock again...Double Argh!

There goes the alarm.

POP! Well, the tin's open. And sewing needles are all over the sofa...and...

Yup. Ouch...that one's point down in my thigh. Waaaaah!

Let's fast forward...no real damage done.

New needle. All good. Thread zipping in and out. Tie it off. Snip!

Robe off. Shirt on. Good as new.

Grab the bag. Grab the tea. Grab the boy.

Off into the rain.

The rain?

The RAIN!

Welp! Back in, grab the umbrella.

Say cheese! Click...photo? Check.

Off into the downpour.

A noticeable groan from the boy who now, clutching his abdomen, says "I hate rain".

Yup. There's that. Weather-induced headaches and gastric issues.

It's Finals Week. And it's raining. And he's off his game.

Awesome. (Yeah, no.)

Down we trudge. Bus arrives. He winces, as ever, at the squeal of the brakes.

I stand, waving my arms about like the 'Wacky Waving Inflatable Tube Guy' at the disappearing tail lights...

"I love you! Come home safe to me." Blow a kiss. My ritual.

Back up and in. Umbrella propped across the sofa to dry. (Small space living, m'i'right?) Tea kettle on. Laptop unplugged. Shoulder-mounted kitty.

Chime!

My phone screen lights up and I smile. Google Hangouts-from the bus.

"Thanks, Mami. Ps-why is everyone on the bus SO LOUD?!?!

Ps again-you look tired."

"Earbuds are in the left front pocket, kiddo. Put them in! I'm suuuuuuper tired...and old, and fading...but thanks for the reminder to shellac my face!

Good luck today...and DON'T TUG ON YOUR SHIRT, please?!?"

Chime!

"Okay. Ps-the button on my shorts is loose now, too."