I wake up every morning to the rapid percussion of toddler feet in the hallway, the thud of the toilet seat against the tank, the sound of water in the dark. In the silence that follows I open my eyes to a little perched head, nose almost touching mine, chin resting on the mattress, eyes wide and smiling. He's just the right height now. It is enough to instantly melt even the grouchiest, iciest of morning thoughts.
I'm tired. I'm tired all the time. So is John. Lincoln is not tired. Especially in the morning. He wants nothing more than to hop in bed with us. If allowed, he'll instantly jump, jab, kick, turn somersaults and walk all over his sleepy parents as if we'd just let him loose on a sunny playground after a day of being cooped up indoors. The squeals of joy and hopeful "It's morning!" cries make it hard to resent the rude awakening the we, after all, invited.
But often I'll refuse him that joy, though it seems so cruel. I'll tell the little hopeful loving nose touching mine to return to his room and look at a book until John or I come in "in a few minutes." Sometimes this, too, brings him joy...apparently he's just excited to get confirmation that it IS morning time, and he'll retreat to his room at full speed, launch himself on the bed and be content with his books or turning more somersaults or whatever strikes his wee-hours fancy. But sometimes these instructions strike him as unfair. And un-fun. The little brow nearly touching mine will furrow and he'll frown and whimper, turning on heel to slowly sulk away. On those days he usually sits in his room for 28 seconds and then bursts out again into the bathroom to call forth from the depths the one thing he knows will get one or the other of us out of bed immediately. You can't fault a 2 year old for his amazingly independent potty usage, even if it is a tactic. So I get up to help him wipe. And he's all smiles and roses and "I did a good job Mama" and what am I going to do? For consistency's sake I help him wash hands and make him return to his room to carry out an abbreviated version of the original instructions. And then I groggily get dressed and whisper and hold his hand on the stairs and fall on the couch in a fog and, on slower days, read books to my son and, on faster days, help him get into whatever costume he'd laid out the prior evening. We have an early morning sword fight or a make a quick paper hat or begin a tickle fest, or, if I'm lucky and he's too hungry or not quite rearing to go we'll just sit up at the table and start breakfast. John will usually come down soon after, because for some reason on his days to sleep in he never does. And I my days I usually do.
Either way, it is easy to see--as John often reminds me-- that we'll miss this time, with aching hearts, when it is over.
And we'll get more sleep.
