There’s something not quite right about having three boy-people of various sizes in one’s bed before the clock strikes 7. While the biggest one was snoring, the middle two were engaging in some sort of call and response that can best be described as irritatingly humorous. ‘Whee whee’, announced the Hen and his older brother followed up with ‘whee whee’. ‘Choo choo,’ followed by ‘choo choo’, ‘cha cha’…’cha cha’….’pee pee’….’pee pee’.
It always culminates in pee.
‘Tomorrow is a school day,’ the Gort announced confidentially to his middle brother. Now that he has a calendar on the wall by his bed, he has an encyclopedic knowledge of each day’s activities. A knowledge he insists on sharing with others. Repeatedly.
But, little did he know that ‘tomorrow’ was, in fact, ‘today’. Just because it is pitch black at 7am, doesn’t mean it’s still the night before. But I didn’t correct him because, maybe, if he thought it was still ‘night’ he’d lie in bed for just a little while longer.
The Hen doesn’t have a calendar. Or much of an internal clock, it seems. At 5.56am he stood up in his crib calling ‘daddy’ and ‘mommy’ until someone (me) came and got him. ‘Do you want to sleep in my bed?’ I asked. But what I was really saying was: ‘you can lie in my bed but I am not taking you downstairs to eat breakfast.’ He nodded his head affirmatively. I thought we had a deal.
It didn’t turn out to be much of a deal. He writhed around on our bed, conducting his own form of morning revelry: roll call. ‘Whe baby?’ ‘Baby’s sleeping, shhh’. ‘Whe daddy?’ ‘Daddy’s sleeping…shhh’. ‘Whe Gaga?’ ‘Gaga’s sleeping….shhhh’. ‘Whe Hanho’…’there you are, shh’. ‘Whe mommy?’ ‘Right here. SHHHHH’.
It was barely past 6 and I’d already used up my allotment of shushes for the day. Not a good sign.
I tried everything in my sleepy power to keep him in bed as long as possible. I played ‘this little piggy’ more times than I could count. I’d finish with one foot and, without a word, he’d stick the other foot in my face. Next! For some reason the kid loves ‘this little piggy’. Almost as much as he likes cereal.
‘I wan shee-uhl’ he announced. Once, twice, three times. Fine.
We stumbled down the stairs. In the dark. I got out the frosted mini-wheats and the milk and the juice. He took a bite. ‘I done!’ he announced. No, you’re not. You don’t drag me out of bed under the pretense of your imminent starvation only to eat one bite and pronounce yourself ‘done’. I gave him the evil eye. And sat down at the table with him, eating my own bowl of mini-wheats. Feeling a tad guilty, he sat down again and proceeded to finish the contents of his bowl.
‘Nigh nigh’ he asked-said. ‘You want to go night night?’ I asked. He nodded. Relieved, I escorted him upstairs, where I practically had to pin him in order to get him to lie down on the bed. The clock hadn’t yet struck 7 when big brother joined us. Clearly still tired, but unwilling to miss out on all the ‘fun’.
‘Whe my jew’ the Hen requested. I pointed to the green sippy cup on my nightstand. ‘He’s not allowed to have juice,’ his brother informed me. ‘Juice is only for morning time.’ Little did he know we’d already been downstairs for breakfast.
‘I hunree’ my middle child piped up. I didn’t bother responding. ‘I wan shnack’ he clarified, lest I’d missed it the first time. The kid talks like an old man missing most of his teeth. He was lying in his crib three nights ago, talking to my mom on the phone. ‘Whadyousay’ he asked. For a moment it was as if he was lying in a nursing home bed talking to one of his kids.
When I didn’t respond to his request for additional food, he got off the bed and ran to his dad’s side. ‘Daddy, I hunree…I wan schnack’. No response there. So he ran back over to my side. ‘I hunree…I wan schnack’. It conjured up images of the Israelites marching around the walls of Jericho….in a semi-circle. Before the bed imploded, I gathered my posse and we went downstairs again.
This time for bowls of yogurt and ‘grape nuts’ (All Bran Buds, actually). The Hen didn’t touch his. Quelle surprise! It was still pitch black outside. And there is snow on the ground. And it’s snowing. And it’s October 14. Which means this year we will have eight months of winter instead of seven. And no amount of Chinooks can change that little fact.
I racked my brain for some kind of anything that would make me feel better. Since I’d eaten the last of the (second batch of) pecan pie yesterday, there was nothing but a cup of coffee with a teaspoon of butterscotch sauce for me. Maybe this sounds rather desperate, but I could have used the bourbon I’d bought for the pie instead.
I started pouring the boiling water into my cone filter. I noticed the conspicuous absence of dark grounds in said filter.
Twelve more hours.