But last night I was hitting myself on the forehead and whining, "Why did I schedule my son's orthodontic consultation at 7 am?"
I'm barely awake by eight. And it's on the other side of town, so we'd have to leave at six-thirty o'dark.
I was concerned that in my bathrobe and yesterday's make up, they wouldn't even let us in the door. And the doctor would surely frown on my curling up with a blanket in a spare exam chair and finishing my sleep.
We arrived (in the dark) at a lovely new office building with office people bustling around inside. I shuffled to the front door, with my eager and chattering son right beside me—starting the day in the dark apparently not a hindrance for him—and attempted to enter.
The doors were locked. Baffled faces peered out at us. I prayed we were at the wrong building, but the doctor's name was plastered across the door. No luck.
They let us in and then politely explained that our appointment was scheduled for the next day. I nearly started pulling hair (my own). But I didn't. I breathed deeply and as the receptionist left to see what she could do, I whipped out my cell phone and texted my woes to a friend.
Blame started to flow from my fingers—their fault. I knew I'd written the appointment down correctly.
But as my thumb hovered over the send button, I paused. Grumbling is what led the Israelites to go around and around that mountain in the desert for forty years.
So I erased the blame and just stuck to the woe part.
Moments later she was back. Miracle upon miracle, a technician had arrived early. And then the orthodontist showed up ahead of schedule. They plopped my son in a chair and went to work. (They were wonderfully kind.)
I wrapped my bathrobe tighter (actually wore my running gear so I'd look like I was used to getting out of bed with a bang) and sat there in awe. They probably would have showed up early even if I hadn't grumbled, maybe even worked us in.
But then again. . . maybe not. Maybe they would have stopped at Starbucks as I grumbled my way home.