My day begins at 7:30am. I wish it began much later. My children are 3 and 1 and I know that the wakeup time may be further from the sun in a year or so, but that doesn't make me feel much better. I wake up at 7:30 not because they do, but because I am not a morning person and if I wake up with my bright eyed, peppy children, I tend to resemble an angry wildebeast for the first hour or so. By waking up ahead of time, I manage a bath and a cup of coffee and can behave something like a human being by the time they are up and at 'em.
My three year old-Natalie-is especially happy. Since she was 6 weeks old and waking up with me at 5 am in the days when I was a working mommy, she has immediately been "on" from the moment she opens her eyes. She is the main reason that I must wake up early. She is a love but when I am cloudy from sleep and desperately searching for caffeine, hearing "Mommy? Mommy? I dreamed last night! Did you? I dreamed about Tinkerbell and a star and a rabbit! Can I have a rabbit? When is Christmas? Can I have cinnamon toast for breakfast? Where's daddy? Why is is raining? Why are you drooling? You look funny. You need to brush your teeth!" is enough to do me in. And as I said, she is a love and she deserves better than her mommy bellowing "For the love of chocolate, be quiet for 2 seconds!" So up I get.
The one year old-Violet-is a bit less happy. She can talk, but she doesn't care to; instead, she communicates with me physically a lot of the time, tugging or pulling, or, when I have slept past what she deems acceptable, "patting" me on the face. She pats hard. When I am sleeping deeply and am basically slapped across the face, my reaction isn't always the best. So again, up I get.
This morning was no exception, but 7:30 is very early when you push the envelope with Netflix reruns until 2 am and wake up 3 times with Slappy. So the bath and the first cup of coffee didn't scratch the surface. When the three year old bustled into the kitchen, her cinnamon toast was waiting, which was a victory. I was propped up against the kitchen counter, watching Instagram show me all the crafts I'll never craft, the cakes I'll never bake and the clothes I'll never buy-never, ever, because I'm sorry, but those Aztec leggings are capital T-Tacky, into my cup of coffee number 2. Natalie chattered away and managed to ignore the fact that my responses were mostly in the form of grunts and nods. I dressed her and her sister, made a second round of cinnamon toast and sat down on the living room floor, clutching my Preciousssss, aka the coffee mug, to play with Lincoln Logs.
Natalie studied me for a moment and then said, "I know what you are, Mommy!" "That's nice. What am I?" I asked, more interested in figuring out how to build flipping Ft. Lincoln when the thing doesn't come with any instructions. "You're a robot!" "I am?" "Yes! A robot who makes my bed and picks up my toys and gives me peanut butter. That's why you can't talk until you get warm in the bathtub."
Three year old logic aside, I think it's time to start going to bed a bit earlier. Or maybe buy an espresso maker.
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