Dear Darling Early Riser,
This morning when I felt your tiny baby fingers pawing at my face I felt a rush of anger. Opening one eye just enough to see that it was still pitch black outside I grumbled that it wasn’t time to wake up and to go back to your room. I pulled the covers over my head as I heard you scurry out, back through the dark hallway and into your bedroom where you would probably hurt your feet stepping on the millions of toys that litter your floor.
Chastised. Sad. Frustrated. Confused.
Because you didn’t understand why, when YOU were so awake and felt like playing, I was being such a grump.
I didn’t hear you crying because you do it silently, which makes it even sadder. But I just KNEW. Because I’m your mother and totally psychic about these things.
As I always do when something like this happens (when I start feeling overwhelmed/tired/frustrated with you), I start to imagine all the horrifying things that could happen to you. My imagination takes me from a normal scary thing (car accident/bike fall/stairs slip up) to things that I know are insane (a random plate of glass falling off a skyscraper and crushing you/ants getting into your bedroom and eating you alive/poltergeists). I do this and then feel immediately grateful that you are alive, healthy, sweet, loving and kind. It is such a morbid thing to do but it really does help me gain perspective.
I lasted maybe 10 seconds before hauling myself out of bed and coming into your room, where you were (I called it) crying silently in your bed.
So at 6:17 am I started my day with you. We made coffee and chocolate milk. I repeatedly hissed “SHHHHHH! YOU’LL WAKE YOUR SISTER!” because you have absolutely no volume control on your sonic boom of a voice. You watched Iron Man while I paid bills online and when you turned to me at 6:47 am, smiled your sweet smile and said, “This is the BEST DAY EVER” in your crazy loud voice I was filled with such joy.
I know that one day in the not so distant future I’ll be DRAGGING you out of bed at 10 am. You’ll be grumbling about my kisses while I remember how you used to always say “One more hug” at bedtime to slow the process down. I’ll offer you chocolate milk and you’ll smirk because chocolate milk is for babies. Instead of waking me up in the morning you’ll be super quiet because you’ll be sneaking in from a late night party where you’ll have tasted vodka mixed with kool-aid and made out with a girl named Oliva who’s number you didn’t even bother to write down because you were too drunk off the vodka/kool-aid concoction and now she’s going to go and tell all her friends that you’re a jerk because you kissed her and then just left her in the closet.
I know this.
So I will appreciate my short time with you as a sweet child who thinks I’m the most awesome person in the world because soon I’ll just be your old mom who embarrasses you by not dressing age appropriately.
I promise to be more patient. I promise to be more kind. I promise to not yell.
You kind of inherited your sonic boom voice from me. Nobody is perfect.