Today started out as an ordinary Tuesday. I hit the snooze alarm 27 times before jumping out of bed wailing like a siren that we were going to be late for school and therefore the world would soon come crashing down around us. Andrew, my super organized, level-headed, (what end of the gene pool did this kid come from) child got up, methodically packed his lunch, ate breakfast, washed his dishes and experimented with six different manly scents of body spray while I clunked around the house wearing one shoe and searching in vain for its mate. Andrew, of course, found it under the couch and gave me a lecture about footwear organization.
After returning home from my Northwest Laurens Elementary carpool duties, I had 12 minutes to eat breakfast, get Jack dressed for preschool, feed the dogs and save the world from impending manic mommyhood drama. I was determined that I wouldn’t be late for work again this morning. And I wouldn’t have been, had a certain chipmunk not entered the picture. Well, he didn’t actually enter the picture. He died there.