A friend asked today about our morning routine. Below, my answer in 20 easy-to-follow steps.
Step 1: Hear Bar greet the day at 5:45 AM with enthusiastic shouts of "Mum!" DaDA!" "Cat? Cat. Cat. CAT!"
Step 2: Pray for death to take me quickly.
Step 3: Sleep for 45 more seconds while spouse changes the first diaper of the day.
Step 4: Get assaulted by kisses and hugs.
Step 5: Reflect ever so briefly on how much I like kisses and hugs. Pray for death.
Step 6: Get kicked in the face, stabbed in the eye, and punched in the throat in my child's exuberant and acrobatic display of nursing prowess.
Step 7: Pray that maybe he'll fall asleep at the breast like he used to (one year ago) and I can go back to sleep. At this point I even start to have hope.
Step 8: Hopes dashed, Bar races into the house and starts pulling tupperware out of the kitchen cabinets, stacking it upon the cat, and locating small items to throw in the toilet, available to him since DH forgot to close the bathroom door again when he got up to pee.
Step 9: Wonder why death is taking so long to claim me.
Step 10: Hear a loud clatter/bang/boom/shatter. Leap out of bed and find the child with diaper removed sitting in a puddle of pee, and nibbling on the box of sugar cubes that I clearly didn't hide well enough.
Step 11: Screw you death, I'm up, I'm up.
Step 12: Clean pee, feebly suggest use of the potty next time, hide sugar, boil water for tea, apologize to tupperware smooshed cat.
Step 13: Feed offspring. The typical meal is a fistful of organic shredded wheat (made with real shade-grown fair trade hippies!), organic blueberries, organic plain whole milk yogurt, and toast with butter. Bar uses this time to lecture me sternly on how rude it is that I try to check my email during his meal.
Step 14: Finally get a sip of my now tepid tea.
Step 15: Child comes to show me where he has pooped on the floor. "This!" he says proudly pointing, his perfectly clean and comfy cloth diaper discarded in the hallway. "Where does poop go Bar?" I ask. He races into the living room to retrieve his potty, hands it to me and says, "That."
Step 16: Sigh. Clean poop.
Step 17: Read my child books. Endless books. All the books. He lets me know he wants to read by getting them out of the bookshelf and battering me about the face and head with them. "This! Mum? THIS!"
Step 18: Wonder if toddlers can see you if you stop moving. Sit completely still with eyes closed.
Step 19: Theory busted. More bookish assault, further reading, diaper locating, and cat mangling.
Step 20: 9:45 AM. Spot a yawn. Nurse. Tuck child back into bed. Drink cold tea. Collapse onto couch and stare blankly into space wondering what I'm supposed to do now.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
To my beloved child: Though I cherish your generous nature and am so proud of how much you like to share, I will not, under any circumstances, eat the soggy, chewed up piece of toast you keep offering me from your mouth no matter how many times you try to put it into mine. Even a mother's love has limits.