Early Mornings

Even though I was asleep, I knew the heater had kicked on. I could feel the room warming up and the gentle hum reassuring me that I could sleep in comfort for several more hours. Since it was Saturday morning my only plan was to stay in bed a little longer than usual. Then it happened. I wasn’t surprised because it happens every day at this time.

The gentle, yet familiar kick to my leg told me that my night was over. The kick, as always, was subtle but it conveys a message. She doesn’t have to say anything really because I know what it means. “I’m growing your next child inside of me and it’s your turn to take care of the ones we already have.” I glanced at the clock. 5:37 a.m. He’s three minutes early, I thought to myself.

The truth is I knew the kick was coming because I had heard the rapid pitter-patter of a two-year-old in footie jammies sprinting down the hall moments before. There has been very little deviation from this routine for the last several months. Maybe he knows a baby is coming and he’s getting up early to get a head start on Mommy-hogging before anyone else has a chance to climb on her sleeping body and sit on her head.

Being the dutiful husband that I am, I ignored the kick for as long as possible. When it became apparent that neither the child, nor the kick would go away any time soon, I reluctantly drug myself out of my warm bed only to be assaulted by the bright light of the refrigerator as I squinted to find a gallon of milk and pour it into a bottle. Then, as usual, I spent the next hour trying to keep him quiet and out of Mommy’s bed with only limited success.

The little guy has a radar of sorts. He knows that once I sit down to eat my bowl of cereal with the morning news on my laptop, my guard is down. Without even looking at me the slow pitter-patter of pajama-clad feet quickly accelerated to full speed. As I hurried to swallow the first bite, I could hear the bedroom door flinging open, the doorstop absorbing the force of the blow as the familiar twaaannnggg echoed down the hall.

Though I was only steps behind him, the damage was done. No sense in tip-toeing around now to keep the kid quiet since Mommy was awake. For a two-year-old, a time out chair is usually equated to a place to sit and wait while the tears run their course. Over the course of the next ten minutes several things happened: The little guy made multiple visits to the chair, tears came and went and came again, a giant pile of Legos ended up on the living room floor, and my cereal got soggy. The result of all this tragedy was that he finally learned, at least for today, that Mommy’s bed is off limits when the door is closed.

We’ll see what happens at 5:40 tomorrow morning.