Fast lane or slow lane?

In the car on my way to work. My husband is driving whilst I go through my emails having come in through the night. I like to keep a clean inbox, at the most 10 emails, and preferably no more than 5. My response time is swift, and the last thing I do before I go to bed is to have a run through and answer the quick ones.

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I head for the gym, after changing Sebastian, giving him a bottle and putting in the first batch of laundry. Can’t find my bike keys so I end up being 20 minutes behind schedule. Everything is a schedule in our house, from wake-up to bed time. There is little time for improvisation besides the occasional take-away which is a necessary evil when I get home from work at 8 pm.

When I get back from the gym I take out all the garbage bags (at least 10). I see it as additional work-out for my arms and cheerfully walk back and fourth. Between batches I power on the coffee machine for a cappuccino for my husband. Then the animals get fed and lastly closing off with the last garbage bags.

When I come upstairs with my cappuccino, Reinout sits on the bed. He looks defeated. Deflated might be even a better description. He takes the coffee without a word. I sense something is not as it should. Sebastian runs about, spreading a stinky smell. He’s not well and everything that he gets in gets out. We change him, give him a bath and I get back to the next batch of laundry before heading for the shower. I am now way behind schedule but luckily Reinout has a meeting in my office so I can catch a lift. Otherwise I wouldn’t be in before 11.

In the car my husband leans over to give me a kiss. “Shall we try to get a baby sitter this weekend and book us a spa?” The idea sounds brilliant. I’m tired too. With over 6 weeks until our holiday I need to summon up strength from somewhere (I don’t know where!) to go on. I drop our babysitter an email. “Can you please alleviate us for the weekend?”